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BY P W.ZEIGLER A CO 



<!% datj£ of infdndy are all a dneom , 

l£oro faip, but olj ! boro g^oFf fymj £eerfb 

'"<£»i£ ^Kife'^^roeet opening js.pnng. 



CHILDHOOD, 



THE 



SPRINGTIME 



or 



LIFE, 



AS SEEN IN 



BEAUTIFUL GEMS OF POETRY AND PROSE 



BY THE 



WORLD'S BEST AUTHORS. 



REV. J. THOMAS ZIEGLER, A.M. 



13 /)' 



P. W. ZIEGLER & CO. 

PHILADELPHIA AND CHICAGO. 
1883. 






COPYRIGHT 

1883 

?y J. T. ZIEGLER 



R.jyal Piua, t-hiliirfelplra. 



Take heed how ye offend one of these little ones ; for I say unto you their 
angels do always behold the face of my Father. 



— Jesus Christ. 



The childhood shows the man, 
As morning shows the day. 



-John Milton. 



A house is never perfectly furnished for enjoyment unless there is a child in 
it rising three years old, and a kitten rising three weeks. 

— Robert Southey. 

Sweet childish days, that were as long 

As twenty days are now. *3 

— Wm. Wordsworth. 



Children are travelers newly arrived in a strange country ; we should there- 
fore make conscience not to mislead them. 

— John Locke. 



A sweet new blossom of Humanity, 

Fresh fallen from God's own home to flower on earth. 

— Gerald Massey. 

I love these little people ; and it is not a slight thing when they, who are so 

fresh from God, love US. —Charles Dickens. 



A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure. 

— M. F. Titpper. 

Better to be driven out from among men than to be disliked of children. 

— R. H. Dana. 

Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, 
What joy is welcomed like a new-born child ? 

— Mrs. Norton. 



Childhood has no forebodings; but then it is soothed by no memories of out- 
lived Sorrow — George Eliot. 



They are idols of hearts and of households; 
They are angels of God in disguise 



C. M. Dickinson. 



Oh, banish the tears of children ! Continual rains upon the blossoms are hurtful. 

— Jean Paul Richter. 

In the man whose childhood has known caresses, there is always a fibre of 
memory which can be touched to gentle issue. —George Eliot. 

4 




WWM ©DM &M EKSaHEflSB. 




H, little child! 

Stretched on thy mother's knees, -with steadfast gaze 
And innocent aspect mild, 
Viewing this novel scene in mute amaze, 
Following the moving light, thy mother's smile, 

And storing up the while 
New precious knowledge till thou com'st to be 
Sage it may be, or clown — 
Soaring or sinking down, 
To topmost heights of weal or depths of misery; 
How shall I dare to mark thy innocent look, 



And write, as in a book, 

Thy infinite possibilities of life ; 

What fate awaits thee in the coming strife, 

What joys, what triumphs in the growing years, 

What depths of woe and tears? 

I see thee lie 
Safe in thy silken cradle, sunk in down, 
Within thy father's palace-chambers fair ; 
Thy guarded slumbers breathing tempered air; 
The soft eyes, full of yearning, watching by; 
Caressing arms waiting thy waking cry; 
All luxury and state which can assuage 
Life's painful heritage ; 
The prayers of a people swell for thee 
Up to the careless skies which cover all. 
And yet it may be thine to fall 
Far from thy loved and native land, 
And end thy imperfect, innocent life-tale here, 
Forsaken on a savage desert strand, 
Pierced thro' and thro' by some barbarian spear. 

5 



I see thy tiny face 

Pale, worn with hunger, and large hollow eyes, 

Upon the frozen way-side laid 

Stiffening in thy dead mother's cold embrace. 

I hear thy piteous cries 

When the sot flings thee down with limbs that 
bleed — 

Flings thee, and takes no heed; 

Wake, helpless, born to misery, girt round 

With vice and sin and shame, in sight and 
sound. 

Poor life, foredoomed, already sunk and lost; 

Too often sent to tread the ways of death 

With childish failing breath; 

Yet ofttimes holding power 

To bloom, a virgin flower, 

Upon the untrodden heights closed to the mul- 
titude, 

Among the wise and good. 

Or with brown face thou comest and limb, 

Naked, on the warm soil that bears the palm ; 



THE ODE OF INFANCY. 



Or haply the young heir of all the dim 

And half-forgotten realms whose ruins stand 

Sown lion-haunted on the deathlike calm 

Which wraps the Egyptian or Assyrian sand 

Eeared 'midst the dust of empires ; or art now 

As through all history thou wert, the child 

Of savage parents, rude and wild, 

Springing and falling, born to eat and breed 

And wither under burning skies a weed, 

'Midst poison fangs and death and cruel men 

With hearts that ape the tigers ; or art born 

In the old, old empire, which hath long outworn 

God and the hopes of man, and yet coheres, 

Propped by its own far-reaching bulk, as when 

It did emerge from savagery and grew, 

Oh, child ! as yet may you, 

To worldly strength, and knowledge, and dead lore 

Of wisdom fled before, 

And dull content, and soulless hopes and fears. 

Wherever thou mayest be, 

To me thou art wonderful and strange to see — 

Busied with trifles, rapt with simple toys, 

As men with graver joys. 

I hear thy lisping accents slowly reach 

The miracle of speech ; 

I mark thy innocent smile ; 

I treasure up each baby wile 

Which smooths the brow of thought, the heart 

of care. 
Thou royal scion, born to be the heir 
Of all the unrecorded days, since first 
Man rose to his full being, once blest, and then 

accurst ! 
In weal and woe and ill 
Thou art a miracle still. 
From snow-bound hut to equatorial strand, 
Above thee still regarding angels stand ; 
Whilst thy brief life-tale passes like a dream 
Across Creation's glass. 
Dark powers of ill press thee on either side, 
As now thy swift years pass, 
Revealing on thy young soul's tablets white 
The eternal characters of Right ; 
Or sometimes with the growing years grown strong 
The unLallowed signs of wrong. 

Oh, little child ! thou bringest with thee still, 

As Moses, parting from the fiery hill, 

Some dim reflection in thine eyes, 

Some sense of Godhead, some indefinite wonder 

As of one drifted here unwillingly ; 

Who knows no speech of ours, and yet doth keep 

Some dumb remembrance of a gracious home 

Which lights his waking hours and fills his sleep 



With precious visions which unbidden come ; 
Some golden link which nought of earth can 

sunder, 
Some glimpse of a more glorious land and sea ! 

Oh, precious vision fleeting past ! 
Oh, age too fair to last ! 
For soon new gifts and powers are thine, 
And growing springs and summers bring 
Boyhood or girlhood hastening, 
And nerve the agile limb, and teach, 
With the new gift of speech, 
The wonders that stand round on every side, 
And Life's imperial portals opening gradually 
wide. 

OUR BABY. 

ID you ever see our 
baby? 
Little Tot ; 
With her eyes so 
sparkling bright. 
And her skin so lily 
white, 
I'f iff . Lips and cheeks ot 
rosy light — 
Tell you what, 
ESS? She is just the sweet- 
est baby 
In the lot. 
Ah ! she is our only darling, 

And to me 
All her little ways are witty ; 
And when she sings her little ditty, 
Every word is just as pretty 

As can be — 
Not another in the city 
Sweet as she. 

You don't think so — never saw her, 

Wish you could 
See her with her playthings clattering, 
Hear her little tongue a chattering; 
Little dancing feet come pattering — 

Think you would 
Love her just as well as I do, 

If you could ! 

Every grandma's only darling, 

I suppose, 
Is as sweet and bright a blossom, 
Is a treasure to her bosom, 
Is as cheering and endearing 

As my rose. 
Heavenly Father, spare them to us 

Till life's close. — Mrs. Gage. 




» 



Ei&R ULD.. 



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OW deeply winning are the ways 
Of Children in their Infant days ! 
The eye that scans the speaker through ; 
Th' inquiry if "the tale be true?" 
The dumb show, where the word oft fails, 
Yet quite as much as speech avails ; 
The pressure of the soft fond cheek, 
That doth such confidence bespeak ; 
How truly we may here behold 
The Infant mind of " two year old ! " 

In some, whilst still upon the knee, 
The spirit struggles to be free ; 
Mark too the temper's ruffled skein, 
As yet held but by snaffle rein ; 
The energy that speaks command, 
The action done as soon as planned ; 
The "tug of war " in every way 
That may ensure the mastery ; 
And this, perhaps we may be told, 
Is unregenerate "two year old." 

O mothers ! watch with trembling joy 
The dawning of your Infant boy ; 
The mind that's formed without a plan, 
Will never make a " perfect man ; " 
Think not that coming years will swell 
The stock which is not grafted well ; 
The sapling which receives no care 
Is little better than a tare : 
Then soon as buds of ill unfold, 
Suppress them in your " two year old." 



►-*>-&> o- 



™- 



^li^f^AKED on parents' knees a new-born child, 




Weeping thou sat'st when all around thee smiled ; 

So live, that, sinking to thy last long sleep, 

Thou then may'st smile while all around thee weep. 

— From, the Sanscrit of Calidasa by Sir William Jones. 



THE "SWEETEST SPOT" 




Wltfll? 8IP(B)?« 



jHE sweetest spot in the house 
to me 
Is the spot which holds my 

treasure wee. 
What is my treasure ? Come 
and see — 

Only a blue-eyed baby. 
Only a bundle of dimples and 
love 

Dropped in my arms from somewhere above ; 
A white-winged, cooing, and nestling dove, 
Or — a bundle of mischief, maybe. 

Now creeping here, now creeping there, 
Calling me hither and everywhere ; 
Playing with sunbeams on the floor, 
Cooing-" a-gooing" over and o'er; 
Climbing up and clambering down, 
Bumping and bruising his tiny crown; 
Sticking his toes through the dainty socks, 
Soiling and tearing his dainty frocks ; 
Falling and crying and catching his breath, 
Till mamma is frightened almost to death ; 
Laughing and shouting in frolic and play, 
Having a world of his nonsense to say ; 
Showing the dimples in cheek and in chin, 
Where frolic and mischief peep out and in ; 
Asking for kisses and getting them, too, 
On cheek and on chin and on eyes so blue ; 
Ready for play when the sunbeams rise, 
Ready for sleep with the twilight skies ; 
And the sweetest spot in the house, you see, 
Is the spot which holds my treasure wee — 
My blue-eyed baby, my bundle of love, 
My white-winged, cooing, and nestling dove ; 
And long may he find his haven of rest 
In his mother's arms, his mother's breast. 

Mary D. Brine. 



Nor the haze on the hill in noon-day hours, 
Blue as the eyes of this baby of ours. 

There's not a murmur of wakening bird, 
The clearest, sweetest, that ever was heard 
In the tender hush of the dawn's still hours, 
Sweet as the voice of this baby of ours. 

There is no gossamer silk of tasseled corn, 
No flimsiest thread of the shy wood-fern, 
Not even the cobweb spread over the flowers, 
Fine as the hair of this baby of ours. 

There is no fairy shell by the sounding sea 

No wild-rose that nods on the windy lea, 

No blush of the sun through April's soft 

showers 
Pink as the palms of this baby of ours. 

May the dear Lord spare her to us, we pray, 
For many a long and sunshiny day, 
Ere he takes to bloom in Paradise bowers 
This wee bit darling — this baby of ours. 



^=3«<-< 




ei^DLE SONG. 

•LEEP, baby, sleep ! for the night draweth 
nigh ; 
The daylight is fading from earth and from 
sky; 
Through rifts in the azure the stars will soon 

peep, 
While the breeze whispers softly, oh, sleep, baby, 
sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! mother sits by thy side, 
And rocks thee so gently, her joy and her pride. 
'Tis time you were shutting your bonnie blue eye, 
There's nothing to fear, darling, sleep and by-bye. 

May angels watch o'er thee, through dark and 

through light ; 
God's tender care keep thee, we live in His sight; 



HERE is not a blossom of beautiful We'll trust Him, my darling, by night and by 



-<$®s>- 



«=3°g£^ 



THIS 1JLBY @F 0013. 



May, 
} Silver of daisy or daffodil gay, 
Nor the rosy bloom of apple-tree 

flowers, 
Fair as the face of this baby of ours. 

You can never find on a bright June day 
A bit of fair sky so cheery and gay. 



day; 
The hand that has made us, will guard us alway. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! now the sand-man is here ; 
He stole in quite softly, his purpose is clear ; 
Through the ivory gate into dream-land she 

goes — 
Now rest thee, my darling, sweet be thy repose. 



8 




A babe in a house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger ot peace and love 
A resting-place for innocence on earth ; a link between angels and men ; 
Yet is it a talent of trust, a loan to be rendered back with interest ; 
A delight, but redolent of care ; honey sweet, but lacking not the bitter ; 

9 



INFLUENCE OF EARLY TRAINING. 

For character groweth day by day, and all things aid it in unfolding, 

And the bent unto good or evil may be given in the hours of infancy. 

Scratch the green rind of a sapling, or wantonly twist it in the soil, 

The seared and crooked oak will tell of thee for centuries to come ; 

Even so mayest thou guide the mind to good, or lead it to the marrings of evil, 

For disposition is budded up by the fashioning of first impressions ; 

Wherefore, though the voice of Instruction waiteth for the ear of Reason, 

Yet with his mother's milk the young child drinketh Education. 

Patience is the first great lesson ; he may learn it at the breast ; 

And the habit of obedience and trust may be grafted on his mind in the cradle : 

Hold the little hands in prayer, teach the weak knees their kneeling ; 

Let him see thee speaking to thy God ; he will not forget it afterwards ; 

When old and gray will he feelingly remember a mother's tender piety, 

And the touching recollection of her prayers shall arrest the strong man in his sin. 

M. F. Tupper. 



CHILDREN. 

HE smallest are 
near to God, as the 
smallest planets are 
nearest the sun. 
Were I only for a 
time almighty and 
powerful, I would 
create a little world 
especially for my- 
self, and suspend 
it under the mild- 
est sun, a world where I would have 
nothing but lovely little children, and 
these little things I would never suffer to 
grow up, but only to play eternally. If a 
seraph were worthy of heaven, or his 
golden pinions drooped, I would send him 
to dwell for a while in my infant world, 
and no angel, so long as he saw their inno- 
cence, could lose his own. 

Jean Paul Richtee. 




THE CH1LB-P0EI, 

OU have watched a child playing, in 
those wondrous years when belief 
is not bound to the eyes and ears, 
and vision divine is so clear and 
unmarred, that each baker of pies in the 
dirt is a bard ! Give a knife and a shingle, 
he fits out a fleet, and, on that little mud- 
puddle over the street, his invention, in 
purest good faith, will make sail round the 
globe with a puff of his breath for a gale, 
will visit, in barely ten minutes, all climes, 
and find North-western passages hundreds 
of times. Or, suppose the young poet fresh 
stored with delights from that Bible of 
childhood, the Arabian Nights, he will turn 
to a crony and ciy, " Jack, let's play that I 
am a Genius !" Jacky straightway makes 
Aladdin's lamp out of a stone, and for 
hours they enjoy each his own supernatural 

powers. 

James Russell Lo\tell. 



¥0MM'S CROWN. 

*\£5^? E is sleeping — brown and silken 
Lie the lashes long and meek, 
.• Like caressing clinging shadows 

On his plump and peachy cheek ; 



4— *• 



And I bend above him weeping 
Thankful tears — oh, undefiled ! 

For a woman's crown of glory, 
For the blessing of a child ! 



10 




®t 5) 

;A FJiTHER S WISHa 



Wm® 





|ITTLE sportive beauty, say, 
Must thy childish joys decay? 
Every thought where life is new, 
Is as fresh as morning dew ; 

Fancy on its buoyant wing, 

Seeks the breast of laughing Spring ; 

And the voung- heart takes delight 

In each natural sound and sight. 

Might thy childhood almost past 

Blissful age ! forever last, 

Mingling with expanded sense 

Spotless truth and innocence; 

Like the painted bow above, 

Full of promise, peace, and love ! 

Like a bark upon the sea, — 

Such is Childhood's memory, 

Leaving on the infant mind 

Xot a trace of grief behind ; 



Like a sky of summer blue, 

Such is childhood's onward view, 

All as vague and all as bright 

Beaming with unclouded light. 

Thy mind knows not an anxious doubt, 

It never heard of sin. 
'Tis heedless of the world without, 

Wrapt in its world within. 

With flaxen hair and bright blue eyes 
A sprightlier fairy never smiled, 

And I would some spell devise 
To keep my favorite still a child. 

I know that soon a riper grace 

Will rest upon thy maiden face; 
But then thou wilt not be 
The same fair child to me, 
That came on winged feet 
My well-known steps to greet. 

With flaxen hair and bright blue eyes 
A sprightlier fairy never smiled, 

And I would fain some spell devise 
To keep my fairy still a child. 

LOED POBCHESTER 



■fV 



§XOTHER little wave upon the sea of 
life; 
Another soul to save amid its toil and 
strife. 

Two more little feet to walk the dusty road ; 
To choose where two paths meet, the narrow and 
the broad. 

Two more little hands to work for good or ill ; 
Two more little eyes, another little will. 

Another heart to love, receiving love again ; 
And as the baby came, a thing of joy and 
pain. 



11 



i 



k 



-»#• A GBAPBIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. $$*>■ 



-41 



f 




UBJRAH! Light 
upon the world 
again ! It's a 
glorious world ! 
magnificent! 
quite too beauti- 
ful to leave ; and, 
besides, I would 
rather stay, if 
only to thauk 
God a little longer 
for this glorious light, this pure air that 
can echo back my loudest hurrah. And 
then, my boy — but haven't I told you? 
Why, sir, I've got a boy. A BOY ! ha, ha ! 
I shout it out to you — A BOY ; fourteen 
pounds, and the mother a great deal better 
than could be expected ! And, I say, sir, 
it's mine ! Hurrah, and hallelujah forever ! 
O, sir, such legs, such arms, and such a head ! 
and O, good heavens ! he has his mother's 
lips ! I can kiss them forever ! and then, 
sir, look at his feet, his hands, his chin, his 
eyes, his everything in fact, so, " so perfectly 
O. K. !" Give me joy, sir ; no you needn't, 
either ! I am full now ; I run over ; and 
they say that I ran over a number of old 
women, half killed the mother, pulled the 
doctor by the nose, and upset a 'pothecary 
shop in the corner ; and then, didn't I ring 
the tea-bell? Didn't I blow the horn? 
Didn't I dance, shout, laugh, and cry, 
altogether? The women they had to tie 
me up. I don't believe that; but who is 
going to shut his mouth when he has a live 
baby ? You should have heard his lungs, 
sir, at the first mouthful of fresh air ; such 
a burst ! A little tone in his voice, but 
not pain ; excess of joy, sir, from too great 
sensation. The air-bath was so sudden, you 
know. 



Think of all this beautiful machinery 
starting off at once in full motion ; all his 
thousand outside feelers answering to the 
touch of cool air ; the flutter and crash at 
the ear, and that curious contrivance, the 
eje, looking out wonderingly and bewildered 
on the great world, so glorious to his un- 
worn perceptions. His network of nerves, 
his wheels and pulleys, his air pumps and 
valves, his engines and reservoirs; and 
within all, that beautiful fountain, with its 
jets and running streams, dashing and 
coursing through the whole length and 
breadth, without stint or pause, making 
altogether, sir, exactly fourteen. Did I ever 
talk brown to you, sir, or blue, or any 
other of the Devil's colors? You say I 
have. Beg your pardon, sir, but you are 
mistaken in the individual. I am this day, 
sir, multiplied by two ; I am duplicate ; I 
am number one of an indefinite series, and 
there's my continuation. And you observe, 
sir, it is not a block, nor a blockhead, nor a 
painting, nor a bust, nor a fragment of any- 
thing, however beautiful ; but a combination 
of all the arts and sciences in one ; painting, 
sculpture, music, (hear him cry !) mineralogy, 
chemistry, mechanics, (see him kick !) geo- 
graphy, and the use of the globes, (see him 
nurse !) and withal, he is a perpetual motion, 
a timepiece that will never run down. And 
who wound it up ? But words are but a 
mouthing and a mockery. * * * * * 

When a man is nearly crushed under 
obligations, it is presumed he is unable to 
speak ; but he may bend over very care- 
fully for fear of falling, nod m a small 
way and say nothing, and then if he is 
of sufficient presence of mind to lay a 
hand upon his heart, and look down at an 
angle of forty-five degrees with a motion 



12 



A GRAPHIC DESCRIPTION OF A BABY. 



of the lips, muttered poetry, showing the 
wish and the inability, it will be (well done) 
very gracefully expressive. 

With my boy in his first integuments, 
I assume that position, make the nod 
aforesaid, and leave you the poetry unmut- 
tored. 

KNICKERBOCKER. 
^iSGyP^^ 




" Who bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip, my king ! 
Bound whom the enshadowing purple lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities : 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand, 

With Love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command 
Till thou shalt find a queen hand-maiden, 
Philip, my king ! 

Oh, the day when thou goest a-wooing, 

Philip, my king ! 
"When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And, some gentle heart's bars undoing, 
Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there 

Sittest, love-glorified ! — Rule kindly, 
Tenderly, over thy kingdom fair ; 

For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 
Philip, my king ! 

Up from thy sweet mouth up to thy brow, 

Philip, my king! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant and make men bow 
As to one heaven-chosen amongst his peers. 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer 



Let me behold thee in future years ! 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 
Philip, my king ! 

A wreath, not of gold, but palm. One day, 

Philip, my king ! 
Thou, too, must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny, and cruel, and cold, and gray ; 
Eebels within thee and foes without 
Will snatch at thy crown. But march on, 
glorious, 
Martyr, yet monarch ! till angels shout 

As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 
" Philip, the king !" 

Dinah Mulock Craik. 

cjfe OUR BABES. 

;£l\YH babes shall richest comforts bring 
If tutor'd right, and prove a spring 

Whence pleasures ever rise : 
But form their mind with studious care, 
To all that's manly, good, and fair, 

And train them for the skies. 



While they our wisest hours engage, 
They'll jcy our youth, support our age, 

And crown our hoary hairs ; 
They'll grow in virtue every day, 
And thus our fondest loves repay, 

And recompense our cares. 



Cotton. 




<l 




THE DEAREST BABY. 
OUTH and North, 
East and West, 
Where is the baby 
That I love best? 

A little papoose 

Under the trees ? 
A Chinese beauty 

Beyond the seas? 

'An English child 

Among the mills ? 
A Switzer baby 

Between the hills? 

A dark-eyed darling 

xn Southern vales? 
An Iceland baby 

In Northern gales? 

What nonsense talk 

To speak of these ! 
The dearest baby 

Is on mv knees. Mrs. M. F. Buttz. 



TWO YEARS OLD. 





<*» 



LAYING on the carpet 
near me 
Is a little cherub girl ; 
And her presence, much 
I fear me, 
Sets my senses in a 
whirl ; 
For a book is near me 
lying, 



Full of grave philosophizing, 
And I own I'm vainly trying 

There my thoughts to hold ; 
But in spite of my essaying, 
They will evermore be straying, 
To that cherub near me playing 

Only two years old. 

With her hair so long and flaxen, 

And her sunny eyes of blue, 
And her cheek so plump and waxen, 

She is charming to the view. 
Then her voice, to all who hear it, 
Breathes a sweet entrancing spirit. 
Oh, to be forever near it, 

Is a joy untold ; 
For 'tis ever sweetly telling 
To my heart, with rapture swelling, 
Of affection inly dwelling — 

Only two years old. 

"With a new delight I'm hearing, 

All her sweet attempts at words 
In their melody endearing, 

Sweeter far than any birds ; 
And the musical mistaking 
Which her baby lips are making, 
For m-f heart a charm is waking 

Firmer in its hold 
Than the charm so rich and glowing, 
From the Roman's lip o'erflowing ; 
Then she gives a look so knowing, 

Only two years old. 

Now her ripe and honeyed kisses, 

(Honeyed, ripe, for me alone,) 

Thrill my soul with varied blisses 



Venus never yet hath known. 
When her twining arms are round me, 
All domestic joy hath crowned me, 
And a fervent spell hath bound me, 

Never to grow old. 
0, there's not, this side of Aiden, 
Aught with loveliness so laden, 
As my little cherub maiden 

Only two years old. 



->>=:-#-£<<— 



My BIRD, 



|hBE last year's moon had left the sky, 

c2^(j A birdling sought my Indian nest, 

s ^^> And folded, O, so lovingly ! 

¥W$ Her tiny wings upon my breast. 

# 
* From morn till evening's purple tinge, 

In winsome helplessness she lies ; 

Two rose leaves with a silken fringe, 

Shut softly on her starry eyes. 

There's not in Ind a lovelier bird, 
Broad earth owns not a happier nest ; 

O God, thou hast a fountain stirred, 
Whose waters never more shall rest. 

This beautiful mysterious thing, 
This seeming visitant from heaven, 

This bird with the immortal wing, 
Come to me, thy hand has given. 

The pulse first caught its tiny stroke, 
The blood its crimson hue from mine; 

This life, which I have dared invoke 
Henceforth is parallel with thine. 

A silent awe is in my room, 

I tremble with delicious fear ; 
The future, with its light and gloom, 

Time and Eternity are here. 

Doubts, hopes, in eager tumult rise ; 

Hear, 0, my God! one earnest prayer; 
Room for my bird in Paradise, 

And give her angel plumage there! 

Emily Judson (Fanny Forrester). 
14 . 




THOUGHTS ¥H1LE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE. 




"HAT is the little one thinking about ? 
Very wonderful things, no doubt. 
Unwritten history ! 
Unfathomable mystery ! 
But he laughs and cries, and eats and drinks, 
And chuckles and crows and nods and winks, 
As if his head were as full of kinks 



15 



And curious riddles as any sphynx ! 
Warped by colic and wet by tears, 
Punctured by pins and tortured by fears, 
Our little nephew will lose two years ; 

And he'll never know 

Where the summers go ! 

He need not laugh, for he'll find it so ! 



THOUGHTS WHILE SHE ROCKS THE CRADLE. 



Who can tell what the baby thinks? 
Who can follow the gossamer links 

By which the manikin feels his way, 
Out from the shores of the great unknown, 
Blind, and wailing, and alone, 

Into the light of day ? 
Out from the shores of the unknown sea, 
Tossing in pitiful agony ! 

Of the unknown sea that reels and rolls, 
Specked with the barks of little souls — 
Barks that launched on the other side, 
And slipped from heaven on an ebbing tide ! 
And what does he think of his mother's eyes? 

What does he think of his mother's hair? 
What of the cradle roof that flies 

Forward and backward through tha air ? 
What does' he think of his mother's breast, 

Bare and beautiful, smooth and white. 

Seeking ever with fresh delight, 
Cup of his joy, and couch of his rest? 

What does he think when her gentle embrace 
Presses his hand and buries his face 
Deep where the heart throbs sink and swell 
With a tenderness she can never tell? 

Though she murmur the words of all the birds — 
Words she has learned to murmur so well ! 
Now he thinks he'll go to sleep ! 
I can see the shadows creep 
Over his eyes in soft eclipse, 
Out in his little finger tips, 
Softly sinking down he goes, 

Down he goes, down he goes, 
See ! he is hushed in sweet repose! 

josiah Gilbert Holland. 



-«*- 



LADY ANNIE BOTHWELL'S LAMENT. 

ALOW, my babe, ly stil and 
sleipe ! 
It grieves me sair to see thee 
weipe : 
If thou'st be silent, I'se be glad, 
Thy maining maks my heart ful sad, 
Balow, my boy, thy mother's joy, 
Thy father breides me great annoy. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Whan he began to court my luve, 
And with his sugred wordes to muve, 
His faynings fals, and flattering cheire 
To me that time did not appeire: 




But now I see, most cruell hee 
Cares neither for my babe nor mee. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Ly stil, my darling, sleipe a while, 
And when thou wakest, sweitly smile : 
But smile not, as thy father did, 
To cozen maids : nay, God forbid ! 
Bot yett I feirc, thou wilt gae neire 
Thy father's hart and face to beire. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

I cannae chuse, but ever will 
Be luving to thy father stil : 
Whair-eir he gae, whair-eir he ryde, 
My luve with him doth stil abyde : 
In weil or wae, whair-eir he gae, 
Mine hart can neire depart him lrae. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

But doe not, doe not, pretty mine, 
To faynings fals thine hart incline ; 
Be loyal to thy luver trew, 
And nevir change her for a new : 
If gude or faire, of her have care, 
For women's banning's wondrous sair. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee v/eipe. 

Bairne, sin thy cruel father is gane, 

Thy winsome smiles maun eise my paine; 

My babe and I'll together live, 

He'll comfort me when cares doe grieve : 

My babe and I right saft will ly, 

And quite forgeit man's cruelty. 

Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 

Farewell, farewell, thou falsest youth, 
That evir kist a woman's mouth ! 
I wish all maides be warn'd by mee 
Nevir to trust man's curtesy ; 
For if we doe bot chance to bow, 
They'll use us than they care not how. 
Balow, my babe, ly stil and sleipe, 
It grieves me sair to see thee weipe. 



f 



ANGELS UNAWARES. 

H, each of these young human flowers 
God's own high message bears ; 
And we are walking all our hours 
With "Angels Unawares." 

E. Edmonstone. 



16 




OW, the bright Morning Star, day's harbinger, 

Conies dancing from the east and leads with her 

The flow'ry May, who from his green lap throws 

The yellow cowslip and the pale primrose. 

Hail, beauteous May ! thou dost inspire 

Mirth, and youth, and warm desire, 

Woods and groves are of thy dressing, 

Hill and dale both boast thy blessing! 

Thus we salute thee with our early song, 

And welcome thee, and wish thee long. John Milton. 




MAY-DAY. 

tUEEN of fresh flowers, 
Whom vernal stars obey, 
Bring thy warm showers, 
Bring thy genial ray ; 
In Nature's greenest livery drest, 
Descend on Earth's expectant breast, 
To Earth and Heaven a welcome guest, 
Thou merry month of May ! 

Mark ! how we meet thee 

At dawn of dewy day ! 

Hark ! how we greet thee 

With our roundelay ! 

While all the goodly things that be, 

In earth, and air, and ample sea, 

Are waking up to welcome thee, 

Thou merry month of May ! 

Flocks on the mountains 

And birds upon their spray, 
Tree, turf, and fountains 
All hold holiday ; 
And Love, the Life of living things — 
Love waves his torch, and claps his wings 
And loud and wide thy praises sings, 
Thou merry month of May ! 



It. Hebeb. 



17 



IbmbmI^ 




^HEN the morning, 
half in shadow, 
Ran along the hill 

and meadow, 
And with milk-white 

ringers parted 
Crimson roses, gold- 
en-hearted ; 
Opening over ruins 

hoary 
Every purple morn- 
ing-glory, 
And outshaking from 

the bushes 
Singing larks and 
pleasant thrushes ; 
That's the time our little baby, 
Strayed from Paradise, it may be, 
Came with eyes like heaven above her, 
Oh we could not choose but love her ! 

Not enough of earth for sinning, 
Always gentle, always winning, 
Never needing our reproving, 
Ever lively, ever loving ; 
Starry eyes and sunset tresses, 
White arms, made for light caresses, 
Lips, that knew no word of doubting, 
Often kissing, never pouting ; 
Beauty even in completeness, 
Overfull of childish sweetness : 
That's the way our little baby, 
Ear too pure for earth, it may be, 
Seemed to us, who while about her 
Deemed we could not do without her. 

When the morning, half in shadow, 
Ran along the hill and meadow, 
And with milk-white fingers parted 
Crimson roses, golden hearted ; 
Opening over ruins hoary 
Every purple morning-glory, 
And outshaking from the bushes 
Singing larks and pleasant thrushes ; 
That's the time our little baby, 
Pining here for heaven, it may be, 
Turning from our bitter weeping, 
Closed her eyes as when in sleeping, 
And her white hands on her bosom 
Folded like a summer blossom. 
Now the litter she doth lie on 
Strewed with roses, bear to Zion, 




Go, as past a pleasant meadow, 
Through the valley of the shadow ; 
Take her softly, holy angels, 
Past, the ranks of God's evangels ; 
Past the saints and martyrs holy 
To the Earth-born, meek and lowly, 
We would have our precious blossom 
Softly laid in Jesus' bosom. Phcebe Cary. 



TOS ©DOS^nrl 



RRAYED — a half-angelic 

sight — 
In vests of pure baptismal 

white, 
The mother to the Font doth 

bring 
The little helpless, nameless 

thing 
With hushes soft, and mild 

caressing, 
At once to get — a name and 
blessing 
Close by the babe the priest doth stand, 
The cleansing water at his hand 
Which must assoil the soul within 
From every stain of Adam's sin. 
The infant eyes the mystic scenes, 
Nor knows what all this wonder means ; 
And now he smiles, as if to say, 
"lama Christian made this day ;" 
Now frighted clings to nurse's hold, 
Shrinking from the water cold, 
Whose virtues, rightly understood, 
Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. 
Strange words— The World, The Flesh, The 

Devil- 
Poor babe, what can it know of evil ? 
But we must silently adore 
Mysterious truths, and not explore. 
Enough for him, in after-times, 
When he shall read these artless rhymes. 
If, looking back upon this day 
With quiet conscience, he can say, 
" I have in part redeemed the pledge 
Of my baptismal privilege ; 
And more and more will strive to flee 
All which my sponsors kind did then renounce 
for me." Charles Lamb. 



18 



Til iiFIf 




like a sailor by the tempest hurled 

Ashore, the babe is shipwrecked on the world ; 
Naked he lies, and ready to expire, 
Helpless of all that human wants require ; 
Exposed upon inhospitable earth 
From the first moment of his hapless birth. 
Straight with foreboding cries he fills the room, 
(Too sure presages of his future doom). 
But flocks, and herds, and ev'ry savage beast, 
By more indulgent Nature are increased. 
They want no rattle for their froward mood, 
No nurse to reconcile 'em to their food 
With broken words : nor winter blasts they fear, 
Nor change their habits with the changing year : 
Nor for their safety citadels prepare ; 
Nor forge the wicked instruments of War : 
Unlabored Earth her bounteous treasures grants, 
And Nature's lavish hand supplies their common wants. 

Johst Dkydest. 




SUFFER THEM TO COME, 

UFFER that little children come to Me, 
Forbid them not." Emboldened by His words, 
The mothers onward press ; but finding vain 
The attempt to reach the Lord, they trust their babes 
To stranger's hands ; the innocents alarmed 
Amid the throng of faces all unknown, 
Shrink trembling till their wandering eyes discern 
The countenance of Jesus, beaming love 
And pity ; eager then they stretch their arms 
And, cowering, lay their heads upon His breast. 
°* <&&> — <§ss= — « 

CHILDHOOD. 

NOW is the May of life. Careering round, 
.Toy wings his feet, joy lifts him from the ground, 
Pointing to such, well might Cornelia, say, 
When the rich casket shone in bright array, 
" These are my jewels !" AVell of such as he, 
When Jesus spake, well might His language be, 
" Suffer these little ones to come to Me !" 

19 



James Geahame. 



Samuel Rodgees. 




**" THESE * ARE * MY* JEWELS."^- 



SS^ORNELIA, the 
author of the 



tscvx wavnt 



.::^Smf 



words, " These 
are my jewels," 
whose portrait 
appears on an- 
other page, was 
the youngest 
daughter of Scipio Africanus the Elder and 
Amelia, his wife. She was born one hun- 
dred and eighty-nine years before Christ. 
No details have reached us of her early life. 
In her twentieth year she married Tiberius 
Gracchus. The union was a happy one, and 
they were blessed with many noble children. 
The public duties of Tiberius claimed his 
time, so that the care of the household and 
the education of the family devolved wholly 
upon Cornelia, and she acquitted herself of 
the duties in a manner which had elicited 
the admiration of the world. She main- 
tained in herself and transmitted to her 
sons the grand and severe virtues of her 
father. She had inherited from Scipio a 
love of the arts and for literature, and her 
letters which were extant in the time of 
Quintilian — two hundred years afterward 
— were often cited with praise by him and 
by Cicero. The reply of Cornelia to a 
wealthy lady of Campania who requested 
to see her jewels, is the most memorable 
incideut of her career. Adroitly turning 
the conversation upon subjects likely to 
interest and detain her visitor, till her boys 
came home from school, she said, as they 
entered the room, " These are my jewels !" 
Probably no character was ever so clearly 
drawn in so few words ; no delineation can 
possibly add to it ; if nothing were known 
of Cornelia but this one speech, the historian 
would still find it a sufficient basis upon 
which to construct the whole character. 
The three obscure lines in which Valerius 
Maximus narrates the anecdote, have pro- 



bably been as often translated, as widely 
repeated, and as deeply reflected upon, as 
any other three which have been left us by 
the writers of antiquity. 



ARE ALL THE CHILDREN IN? 

fHE darkness falls, the wind is high, 
Dense black clouds fill the western sky ; 
The storm will soon begin. 
The thunders roar, the lightnings flash, 
I hear the great round rain-drops dash — 
Are all the children in ? 

They're coming softly to my side ; 
Their forms within my arms I hide — 

No other arms as sure. . 
The storm may rage with fury wild, 
With trusting faith each little child 

With mother feels secure. 

But future days are drawing near — 
They'll go from this warm shelter here, 

Out in the world's wild din. 
The rain will fall, the cold winds blow ; 
I'll sit alone and long to know, 

Are all the children in ? 

Will they have shelters then secure, 
Where hearts are waiting strong and sure, 

And love is true when tried? 
Or will they find a broken reed, 
When strength of heart they so much need 

To help them brave the tide ? 

God knows it all ; His will is best; 
I'll shield them now, and leave the rest 

In His most righteous hand. 
Sometimes the souls He loves are riven 
By tempests wild, and thus are driven 

Nearer the better land. 

If He should call me home before 
The children go, on that blest shore, 

Afar from care and sin, 
I know that I shall watch and wait 
Till He, the Keeper of the gate, 

Lets all the children in. 

Mes. S. T. Perbt. 



20 




iiiiM 






-McDE^Tfl*I]SMtp*CPDIiE.*-^ 




WEET flower ! no sooner blown than blighted — 
Sweet voice ! no sooner heard than lost — 
Young wanderer ! in thy morn benighted — 
Fair barque ! scarce launched ere tempest-tost I 
Oh ! who would wail thy brief career 
With lamentation's selfish tear '? 
Oh ! who would stay thy upward flight 
Unto thy native land of light "? 
"Who to this world of sin and pain 
Thy spotless spirit would enchain? 
***** 

Sweet flower ! transplanted to a clime 

"Where never come the blights of Time — 

Sweet voice ! which now shall join the hymn 

Of the undying seraphim. 

Young wanderer ! who hast reached thy rest 

With everlasting glory blest. 

Fair barque ! that wrecked on life's dark sea, 

Hast anchored in eternity. 

To toils so long, so hard, as mine, 

Be such a recompense as thine ! 

Rev. W. B. Clarke. 

%-«— s e -*-V 



CHRIST BLESSING CHILDREN. 



(H^mus-ii ^^iD THIXK when I read that sweet story- of old, 



When Jesus was here among men, 
How He called little children as lambs to His fold, 
I should like to have been with them then. 

I wish that His hand had been placed on my head, 
That His arms had been thrown around me, 

And that I might have seen His kind look when He said, 
Let the little ones come unto me. 

Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go, 

And ask for a share in His love, 
And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, 

I shall see Him and hear Him above. 

In that beautiful place He has gone to prepare, 

For all who are washed and forgiven ; 
And many dear children are gathering there, 

For of such is the kingdom of heaven. 




Mp.s. J. LrK3. 



21 




OU are heartily 
welcome, my 
dear little cousin, 
into this unquiet 
world ; long may 
you continue in 
it in all the hap- 
piness it can 
give, and bestow 
enough on all 
your friends, to 
answer fully the impatience with which you 
have been expected. May you grow up to 
have every accomplishment that your good 
friend, the Bishop of Derry, can already 
imagine in you ; and in the meantime, may 
you have a nurse with a tuneable voice, 
who may not talk an immoderate deal of 
nonsense to you. You are at present, my 
dear, in a very philosophic disposition ; 
the gaities and follies of life have no 
attraction for you ; its sorrows you kindly 
commiserate ! but, however, do not suffer 
them to disturb your slumbers, and find 
charms in nothing but harmony and repose. 
You have as yet contracted no partialities, 
are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, 
and look with a perfect indifference on all 
human splendor. You have an absolute 
dislike to the vanities of dress ; and are 
likely for many months, to observe the 
Bishop of Bristol's first rule of conversa- 
tion, Silence, though tempted to transgress 
it by the novelty and strangeness of all 
objects around you. As you advance fur- 
ther in life this philosophic temper will, 
by degrees, wear off; the first object of your 
admiration will probably be the candle, and 
thence (as we all of us do) you will contract 
a taste for the gaudy and the glaring, with- 
out making one moral reflection upon the 
danger of such false admiration as leads 
people many a time to burn their fingers. 
You will then begin to show great partiality 
for some very good aunts, who will con- 



tribute all they can towards spoiling you ; 
but you will be equally fond of an excellent 
mamma, who will teach you, by her exam- 
ple, all sorts of good qualities ; only let me 
warn you of one thing, my dear, that is 
not to learn of her to have such an immode- 
rate love of home as is quite contrary to all 
the privileges of this polite age, and to give 
up so entirely all those pretty graces of 
whim, flutter, and affection, which so many 
charitable poets have declared to be the 
prerogative of our sex. Oh ! my poor 
cousin, to what purpose will you boast this 
prerogative, when your nurse tells you, 
(with a pious care to sow the seeds of 
jealousy and emulation as early as possible,) 
that you have a fine little brother " come 
to put your nose out of joint ?" There will 
be nothing to be done then but to be mighty 
good ; and prove what, believe me, admits 
of very little dispute (though it has occa- 
sioned abundance) that we girls, however 
people give themselves airs of being dis- 
appointed, are by no means to be despised. 
The men unenvied shine in public ; but it 
is we must make their homes delightful to 
them; and, if they provoke us, no less 
uncomfortable. I do not expect you to 
answer this letter yet awhile ; but, as I dare 
say, you haye the greatest interest with 
your papa, will beg you to prevail upon 
him that we may know by a line (before 
his time is engrossed by another secret com- 
mittee) that you and your mamma are well. 
In the meantime, I will only assure you 
that all here rejoice in your existence 
extremely ; and that I am, my very young 
correspondent, most affectionately yours, 

&c. 

Catherine Talbot. 



As he came forth of his mother's womb, 
naked shall he return to go as he came, and 
shall take nothing of his labour, which he 
may carry away in his hand. Bible. 



22 




TO FERDINAND SEYMOUR. 






OSY child, with 
forehead fair, 
Coral lip, and shi- 
ning hair, 
In whose mirthful, 

clever eyes 
Such a world of 

gladness lies ; 
As thy loose curls 
idly straying 

O'er thy mother's cheek, while playing, 

Blend her soft lock's shadowy twine 

With the glittering light of thine — 

Who shall say, who gazes now, 

Which is fairest, she or thou ? 

In sweet contrast are ye met. 

Such as heart could ne'er forget ; 

Thou art brilliant as a flower, 

Crimsoning in the sunny hour ; 

Merry as a singing bird, 

In the green wood sweetly heard ; 

Restless as if fluttering wings 

Bore thee on thy wanderings ; 

Ignorant of all distress, 

Full of childhood's carelessness. 

She is gentle ; she hath known 

Something of the echoed tone 

Sorrow leaves, where'er it goes, 

In this world of many woes. 

On her brow such shadows are 

As the faint cloud gives the star, 

Veiling its most holy light, 

Though it still be pure and bright; 

And the color in her cheek 

To the hue on thine is weak, 

Save when flushed with sweet surprise, 

Sudden welcomes light her eyes ; 

And her softly chiselled face 

(But for living, moving grace) 

Looks like one of those which beam 

In th' Italian painter's dream, — 

Some beloved Madonna, bending 

O'er the infant she is tending : 

Holy, bright, and undefiled 

Mother of the Heaven-born child ; 

Who, though painted strangely fair, 

Seems but made for holy prayer, 

Pity, tears, and sweet appeal, 

And fondness such as angels feel : 



Baffling earthly passion's sigh 
With serenest majesty ! 

Oh ! may those enshrouded years 
Whose fair dawn alone appears, — 
May that brightly budding life, 
Knowing yet nor sin nor strife, — 
Bring its store of hoped-for joy, 
Mother, to thy laughing boy ! 
And the good thou dost impart 
Lie deep-treasured in his heart, 
That, when he at length shall strive 
In the bad world where we live, 
Thy sweet name may still be blest, 
As one who taught his soul true rest ! 

Caroline Norton. 



TO H. C. 



TWO YEARS OLD. 

THOU whose fancies from afar are brought ; 
Who of thy words dost make a mock apparel, 
And fittest to unutterable thought 

The breeze-like motion and the self-born carol, 
Thou fairy voyager ! that dost float 
In such clear water, that thy boat 
May rather seem 

To brood on air than on an earthly stream — 
Suspended in a stream as clear as sky, 
Where earth and heaven do make one imagery ; 

blessed vision ! happy child ! 
Thou art so exquisitely wild, 

1 think of thee with many fears 
For what may be thy lot in future years. 

I thought of times when Pain might be thy guest, 
Lord of thy house and hospitality; 

And Grief, uneasy lover, never rest 

But when she sat within the touch of thee. 

too industrious folly ! 

vain and causeless melancholy ! 

Nature will either end thee quite ; 

Or, lengthening out thy season of delight, 

Preserve for thee, by individual right, 

A young lamb's heart among the full-grown flocks. 

What hast thou to do with sorrow, 

Or the injuries of to-morrow ? 

Thou art a dew-drop, which the morn brings forth, 

111 fitted to sustain unkindly shocks, 

Or to be trailed along the soiling earth ; 

A geni that glitters while it lives, 

And no forewarning gives, 

But, at the touch of wrongs, without a strife, 

Slips in a moment out of life. Wm. Wordsworth. 
23 



THE LITTLE CHILDREN. 







THE LITTLE CHILDREN. 

e LITTLE feet ; that such long 
years 
Must wander on through hopes and 
•;• fears ; 

Must ache and bleed beneath the 
load; 
I, nearer to the wayside inn, 
Where toil shall cease and rest begin, 
Am weary thinking of your road. 

0, little hands ! that weak or strong, 
Have still to .serve or rule so long, 

^ Have still so long to give or ask ; 

i r " I, who so much with book and pen 

Have toiled among my fellow-men, 

Am weary, thinking of your task. 

0, little hearts! that throb and 

beat 
With much impatient, feverish 
heat, 
Such limitless and strong desires ; 
i^, Mine, that so long has glowed and 
••* burned, 

With passions into ashes turned, 
Now covers and conceals its fires. 

0, little souls ; as pure and white, 
As crystalline, as rays of light 
Direct from Heaven, their source 
divine ; 
Refracted through the mist of 

years, 
How red my setting sun appears ; 
How lurid looks this sun of 
mine ! 

Henry W. Longfellow. 
hh 




THI @GOI)M&EI€N AT WQRtif 
-ACH day when the glow of sunset 
Fades in the western sky, 
And the wee ones, tired of playing, 
Go tripping lightly by, 
I steal away from my husband, 

Asleep in his easy-chair, 
And watch from the open doorway 
Their faces fresh and fair. 

Alone in the dear old homestead 

That once was full of life, 
Ringing with girlish laughter, 

Echoing boyish strife, 
We two are waiting together ; 

And oft, as the shadows come, 



With tremulous voice he calls me, 

" It is night ! are the children home?" 

" Yes, love !" I answer him gently, 

" They're all home long ago ;" 
And I sing, in my quivering treble, 

A song so soft and low, 
Till the old man drops to slumber, 

With his head upon his hand, 
And I tell to myself the number 

Home in a better land. 

Home, where never a sorrow 

Shall dim their eyes with tears ! 
Where the smile of God is on them 

Through all the summer years ! 
I know ! — Yet my arms are empty 

That fondly folded seven, 
And the mother heart within me 

Is almost starved for heaven. 

Sometimes in the dusk of evening, 

I only shut my eyes, 
And the children are all about me, 

A vision from the skies ; 
The babes whose dimpled fingers 

Lost the way to my breast, 
And the beautiful ones, the angels, 

Passed to the world of the blessed. 

With never a cloud upon them, 

I see their radiant brows ; 
My boys that I gave to freedom — 

The red sword sealed their vows! 
In a tangled Southern forest, 

Twin brothers, bold and brave, 
They fell ; and the flag they died for, 

Thank God ! floats over their grave. 

A breath, and the vision is lifted 

Away on wings of light, 
And again we two are together, 

All alone in the night. 
They tell me his mind is failing, 

But I smile at idle fears ; 
He is only back with the children, 

In the dear and peaceful years. 

And still as the summer sunset 

Fades away in the west, 
And the wee ones, tired of playing, 

Go trooping home to rest, 
My husband calls from his corner, 

"Say, love! have the children come?" 
And I answer, with eyes uplifted, 

" Yes, dear ! they are all at home !" 

Mrs. M. E. Sakgsteb. 



24 



If 



|1N His moral tillage, God cultivates many flowers 
seemingly only for their exquisite beauty and 
fragrance. For when bathed in soft sunshine 
they have burst into blossom, then the Divine 
hand gathers them from the earthly fields to be 
kept in crystal vases in the deathless mansions 
above. Thus little children die — some in the 
sweet bud, some in the fuller blossom ; but never 
too early to make heaven fairer and sweeter with 
their immortal bloom. 

Verily, to the eye of Faith, nothing is fairer 
than the death of young children. Sight and 
sense, indeed, recoil from it. The flower that, like 
a breathing rose, filled heart and home with an 
exquisite delight, alas ! we are stricken with sore 
anguish to find its stem broken and the blossom 
gone. But unto Faith, eagle-eyed beyond mental 
vision, and winged to mount like a singing lark 
over the fading rainbow unto the blue heaven, 
even this is touchingly lovely. 
The child's earthly ministry was well done, for the rose does its work as grandly 
in blossom as the vine with its fruit. And having helped to sanctify and lift heaven- 
ward the very hearts that broke at its farewell, it has gone from this troublesome 
sphere, — ere the winds chilled or the rains stained it, leaving the world it blessed and 
the skies through which it passed still sweet with its lingering fragrance, — to its glory 
as an ever-unfolding flower in the blessed garden of God. Surely, prolonged life on 
earth hath no boon like this ! For such mortal loveliness to put on immortality — 
to rise from the carnal with so little memory of earth that the mother's cradle seemed 
to have been rocked in the house of many mansions — to have no experience of a 
wearied mind and chilled affections, but from a child's joyous heart growing up in 
the power of an archangelic intellect — to be raptured as a blessed babe through the 
gates of Paradise — ah ! this is better than to watch as an old prophet for the car 
of fire in the Valley of Jordan. 

Charles Wadswoeth, D. D. 




WOMAN'S RIGHTS. 



SE1S0NS OF PRMER. 



fVERY woman has a right to think CTT8HERE are smiles and tears in the mother's eyes 
her child the " prettiest little baby in For her new-born infant before her lies. 

the world," and it would be the greatest Oh, hour of bliss I when the heart o'erflows 

~ ,, 3 ~ i ■ /. i With rapture a mother only knows ; 

lolly to deny her this right, for she would Let it gush forth iu words of fervent prayer . 

be sure to take it. Lrt it swell up to heaven for her precious care. 

Punch. Henry Ware. 

25 



1HRIST IJLESSING ilTTLE ^HILDREN. 




J HEN were there brought unto 

&?% him little children, that he 

should put his hands on them, 

and pray : and the disciples 

rebuked them. 

" But Jesus said, Suffer little 
children, and forbid them not, 
to come unto me ; for of such 
is the kingdom of heaven." — 
Matthew xix. 13, 14. 
At the same time came the disciples unto Jesus, say- 
ing, Who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven? 

"And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set 
him in the midst of them, 

" And said, Verily, I say unto you, Except ye be con- 
verted and become as little children, ye shall not enter 
into the kingdom of heaven. 

" Whosoever, therefore, shall humble himself as this 
little child, the same is the greatest in the kingdom of 
heaven." — Matthew xviii. 1-4. 

The errand upon earth was well nigh done. 
A little more, and that dread passer-on — 
Time, that not even at the Cross stood still — 
Must come, with Calvary's ninth hour. And Christ 
Turn'd tow'rd Jerusalem. Galilee was sweet 
With its fair Mount, that was the step of heaven — 
(Whereon He had but just now stood, and through 
The door flung open to the throne of God, 
Drank strength in thS transfiguring light) — and 

here 
Dwelt Mary, holy mother ; and 'twas here 
His childhood had been passed ; and here the life 
E'en Christ must learn to love, to be '' like us," 
Had been most sweet to him. But not where life 
So gently beautiful is known — oh, not 
Where Nature with her calm rebuke is heard — 
Could the Great Wrong be done ! in Mammon's 

mart — 
The crowded city, where the small, still voice 
Is, like the leaf's low whisper, overborne — 
Where the dark shadow, which before us falls 
When we are turning from the light away, 
Seems at another's feet and not our own — 
Where, 'mid the multitude's bewildering shout. 
Anguish may moan unheeded and even 
Lama sabacthani go up unheard — 
There, only, could the Son of God be slain ! 
And when to His disciples Jesus said 
" Behold, we go up to Jerusalem," 
Then turned His path from peaceful Galilee . 
Thence — to the scourge, the buffet, and the scorn. 
Gethsemane's last conflict, and the Cross — 
The meek first step to Calvary was there ! 



And Christ passed over Jordan, to the coast 
Of populous Judea; and there came 
Multitudes to Him, listening as He taught, 
And wondering at His miracles; for loJ 
His calm word healed all sicknesses ; the blind 
Rose up and gazed upon the luminous brow 
Whose glory had shone through their darkened 

lids ; 
The dumb spoke ; the leper became clean ; 
And devils were cast out which had defied 
The word of His disciples. With new awe, 
Touched with compassionating love, looked these 
Upon their Master now ; for, near at hand, 
They felt the shadow of His coming hour. 
And though His face shone, with the strength new 

given 
By the celestial sacrament of light 
Upon the Mount administered, they still 
Trembled, as men, for One who, as a man, 
Must pass through death — death of such agony 
As for a world's transgressions might atone — 
Whose bitter cup even the Son of God 
Must shrink from with a prayer that it might pass ! 

Christ had told o'er His sorrows, to the end. 
They knew what must befall. In silence sad, 
Listened the Twelve, while jeered the Pharisee, 
And tempted Him the Scribe — for so must He 
To His last victory come ; but eager still, 
Looked they where they might minister to Him, 
Or, watchfully, from that dark path of woe, 
Pluck out the needless thorn. 

The eventide 
Found Him among His questioners — the same ; 
Patient and meek as in the morning hour — 
And while the Scribes, with His mild answers 

foiled, 
Sat by and reasoned in their hearts, behold 
There was a stir in the close multitude, 
And voices pleaded to come nigh; and, straight, 
The crowd divided, and a mother came, 
Hplding her babe before her, and on Christ 
Fixing her moist eyes steadfastly. He turned, 
Benignant, as she tremblingly came near ; 
And the sad earnestness His face had worn 
While He disputed with the crafty scribes, 
Was touched with the foreshadowing of a smile. 
And, lo! another, and another still, 
Led by this sweet encouragement to come, 
Pressed where the first had made her trusting way ; 
And soon, a fair young company they stood — 



26 



CHRIST BLESSING LITTLE CHILDREN. 



A band, who (by a lamp of love, new lit, 

And fed by oil of tenderness from Heaven — 

By recognition, instinct as the eye 

To know, 'mid clouds, the twinkle of a star — 

By mother's love) knew what most holiest be, 

And where to bring their children to be blest. 

And as Christ looked upon them, where they stood, 

And each would lay her infant in His arms, 

To see it there, and know that He had borne 

Her burden on His bosom, there rose up 

Some of the Twelve ; and, mindful of the night, 

And of the trials of the weary day, 

They came between, and bade them to depart, 

And trouble not the Master. Then did Christ 

Reproving His disciples, call again 

The mothers they had turned from Him away, 

And, leaning gently tow'rd them as they came, 

Tenderly took the babes into His arms, 

And laid His hand upon their foreheads fair, 

And blest them, saying : Suffer them to come ; 

For, in my Father's kingdom, such are they. 

Whoso is humble as a little child, 

The same is greatest in the courts of heaven. 

Spotless is infancy, we fondly feel. 

Angels in heaven are like it, He hath said. 

Mothers have dreamed the smile upon the lips 

Of slumbering babes to be the memory 

Of a bright world they come from ; and that, here, 

'Mid the temptations of this fallen star, 

They bide the trial for a loftier sphere — 

Ever progressing. Fearfully, if so, 

Give we, to childhood, guidance for high heaven I 

But, be this lofty vision as it may, 

Christ blest them, here. And, oh ! if in the hour 

Of His first steps to Calvary, and 'mid 

The tempters, who, He knew, had just begun 

The wrongs that were to lead Him to the cross ; 

If here, 'mid weariness and gathering woe, 

The heart of Christ turned meltingly to them, 

And, for a harsh word to these little ones, 

Though uttered but with sheltering care for Him, 

He spoke rebukingly to those He loved — 

If babes thus pure and priceless were to Christ — 

Holy, indeed, the trust to whom they're given ! 

Sacred are they ! N.'P. Willis. 




►HEEKS as soft as July peaches ; 
Lips whose dewy scarlet teaches 
Poppies paleness ; large round eyes 
Ever great with new surprise ; 
Minutes filled with shadeless gladness : 
Minutes just as brimmed with sadness ; 
Happy smiles and wailing cries ; 



Crows and laughs and tearful eyes ; 
Lights and shadows, swifter born 
Than on wind-swept autumn corn ; 
Ever some new tiny notion, 
Making every limb all motion ; 
Catchings up of legs and arms ; 
Throwings back and small alarms ; 
Clutching fingers ; straightening jerks ; 
Twining feet whose each toe works ; 
Kickings up and straining risings; 
Mother's ever new surprisings ; 
Hands all wants and looks all wonder 
At all things the heavens under ; 
Tiny scorns of mild reprovings 
That have more of love than lovings ; 
Mischiefs done with such a winning 
Archness that we prize such sinning; 
Breakings dire of plates and glasses ; 
Graspings small at all that passes ; 
Pullings off of all that's able 
To be caught from tray or table ; 
Silences — small meditations 
Deep as thoughts of cares for nations 
Breaking into wisest speeches 
In a tongue that nothing teaches ; 
All the thoughts of whose possessing 
Must be wooed to light by guessing ; 
Slumbers — such sweet angel-seemings 
That we'd ever have such dreamings; 
Till from sleep we see thee breaking, 
And we'd always have thee waking ; 
Wealth for which we know no measure ; 
Pleasure high above all pleasure ; 
Gladness brimming over gladness ; 
Joy in care ; delight in sadness ; 
Loveliness beyond completeness ; 
Sweetness distancing all sweetness ; 
Beauty all that beauty may be ; — 
That's May Bennett ; that's my baby. 

William C. Bekn"ET5 



rBO-srxazoom. 

ffi H, then how sweetly closed those crowded 
Wk days ! 

tJI~ The minutes parting one by one like rays, 
That fade upon a summer's eve. 

But, oh ! what charm or magic numbers 

Can give me back the gentle slumbers 
Those weary, happy days did leave? 
When by my bed I saw my mother kneel, 

And with her blessing took her nightly kiss; 

Whatever Time destroys, he cannot this — 
E'en now that nameless kiss I feel. 

Washington Alls-ton. 



27 




OOM, gentle flowers ! my child 
would pass to heaven ! 
Ye look'd not for her yet with 
your soft eyes, 
O watchful usher at Death's nar- 
row door ! 
But lo! while you delay to let 

her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One 
long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept them, were the cup of life , 
Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh mother ! 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 

One look upon thy face ere thou depart I 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 
I knew not of— filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 
A love — oh God ! it seems so — that must flow 
Far as thou fleest, and 'twixt heaven and me, 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee I And so, farewell ! 

'Tis a harsh world, in which affection knows 

No place to treasure up its loved and lost 

But the foul grave! Thou, who so late wast 

sleeping 
Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart 
Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving 
But it was sent thee with some tender thought. 
How can I leave thee — here I Alas for man ! 
The herb in its humility may fall 
And waste into the bright and genial air, 
While we — by hands that minister'd in life 
Nothing but love to us — are thrust away — 
The earth flung in upon our just cold bosoms, 
And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours, 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook, 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on, 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
The birds are never silent that build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters. 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers, 
And far below, seen under arching leaves, 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 



Pointing the living after thee. And this 
Seems like a comfort; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies — 
Robb'd of her child and lonely. 'Tis the work 
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 
Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 
The images from all the silent rooms, 
And every sight and sound familiar to her 
Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 
The fountain — that, once struck, must flow for- 
ever — 
Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 
Steals to her pallid lip again, and spring 
Wakens the birds above thee, we will come, 
And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 
Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 
A child that we have loved has gone to heaven, 
And by this gate of flowers she pass' 'd away ! 

N. P. Willis. 
• » !■■,■ '» 

o OJTLY fi SOY. 

J/MNLY a boy, with his noise and fun, 
4ffc| The veriest mystery under the sua ; 
xfcf As brimful of mischief and wit and glee 
£!? As ever a human frame can be, 
And as hard to manage as — ah ! ah me ! 
'Tis hard to tell ; 
Yet we love him well. 

Only a boy, with his fearful tread, 
Who can not be driven, but must be led ; 
Who troubles the neighbors' dogs and cats, 
And tears more clothes, and spoils more hats, 
Loses more tops and kites and bats, 

Than would stock a store 

For a year or more. 

Only a boy, with his wild, strange ways ; 
With his idle hours on busy days ; 
With his queer remarks and odd replies, 
Sometimes foolish, and sometimes wise ; 
Often brilliant, for one of his size, 

As a meteor hurled 

From a pleasant world. 

Only a boy, who will be a man, 
If nature goes on with her first great plan ; 
If fire or water, or some fatal snare, 
Conspire not to rob us of this our heir, 
Our blessing, our trouble, our rest, our care, 
Our torment, our joy — 
" Only a boy." 
28 




TBI BIGHTS OF ilMffl, 



tions and to be 
fairly answered ; 
not to be snub- 
bed as if he were 
guilty of an im- 
pertinence, nor ignored as though his desire 
for information were of no consequence, 
nor misled as if it did not signify whether 
true or false impressions were made upon 
his mind. 

The child has a right to his individuality, 
to be himself and no other; to maintain 
against the world the divine fact for which 
he stands. And before this fact father, 
mother, instructor should stand reverently ; 
seeking rather to understand and interpret 
its significance than to wrest it from its 
original purpose. It is not necessarily to 
be inscribed with the family name, nor 
written over with family traditions. Nature 
delights in surprise and will not guarantee 
that the children of her poets shall sing, 
nor that every Quaker baby shall take 
kindly to drab color, or have an inherent 
longing for a scoop bonnet or a broad- 
brimmed hat. 

In the very naming of a child his indi- 
viduality should be recognized. He should 
not be invested with the cast-off cognomen 
of some dead ancestor or historical celebrity, 
a name musty as the grave-clothes of the 
original wearer — dolefully redolent of old 
associations — a ghostly index-finger forever 
pointing to the past. Let it be something 
fresh ; a new name standing for a new fact, 
the suggestion of a history yet to be written, 
a prophecy to be fulfilled. The ass was 
well enough clothed in his own russet ; but 
when he would put on the skin of the lion, 
every attribute became contemptible. Com- 
monplace people slip easily through the 



HE child has a , world ; but when we would find them 
.right to ask ques- heralded by great names, we resent the 
incongruity, and insist upon making them 
less than they are. George Washington 
selling peanuts, Julius Caesar as a bootblack, 
and Virgil a vender of old clothes, make 
but a sorry figure. 

We are indebted to our children for con- 
stant incentives to noble living ; for the per- 
petual reminder that we do not live to our- 
selves alone ; for their sakes we are admon- 
ished to put from us the debasing appetite, 
the unworthy impulse ; to gather into our 
lives every noble and heroic quality, every 
tender and attractive grace. 

We owe them gratitude for the dark 
hours which their presence has brightened, 
for the helplessness and dependence which 
have won us from ourselves ; for the faith 
and trust which it is evermore their mission 
to renew ; for their kisses on cheeks wet 
Avith tears, and on brows that but for that 
caressing had furrowed into frowns. — Lit- 
tell's Living Age. 




PAYING HER WAY. 

HAT has my darling been doing to-day, 
To pay for her washing and mending ? 
How can she manage to keep out of debt 
For so much caressing and tending ? 
How can I wait till the years shall have flown, 

And the hands have grown larger and stronger ? 
Who will be able the interest to pay 
If the debt runs many years longer ? 

Dear little feet ! how they fly to my side ! 

White arms my neck are caressing, 
Sweetest of kisses are laid on my cheek, 

Fair head my shoulder is pressing. 
Nothing at all from my darling is due, 

From evil may angels defend her — 
The debt is discharged as fast as 'tis made, 

For love is a legal tender I 

Kate Woodland, 



29 




THE BAREFOOT BOY. 



LESSINGSonthee, 
little man, 
| Barefoot boy, with 
cheek of tan ! 



fJiif$3 With thy turned up 
pantaloons, 



And thy merry 
whistled tunes ; 

With thy red lips, 
redder still, 
Kissed by strawberries on the hill ; 
With the sunshine on thy face, 
Through thy torn brim's jaunty grace ; 
From my heart I give thee joy — 
I was once a barefoot boy. 
Prince thou art — the grown up man 
Only a republican ; 
Let the million-dollared ride ! 
Barefoot, trudging at his side, 
Thou hast more than he can buy, 
In the reach of ear and eye ; 
Outward sunshine, inward joy : 
Blessings on thee, barefoot boy ! 

0, for boyhood's painless play, 
Sleep that wakes in laughing day, 
Health that mocks the doctor's rules, 
Knowledge never learned of schools, 
Of the wild bee's morning chase, 
Of the wild flower's time and place, 
Flight of fowl and habitude 
Of the tenants of the wood ; 
How the tortoise bears his shell, 
How the woodehuck digs his cell, 
And the ground mole sinks his well ; 
How the robin feeds her young, 
How the oriole's nest is hung; 
Where the whitest lilies blow, 
Where the freshest berries grow, 
Where the groundnut trails its vine, 
Where the wood grape's clusters shine ; 
Of the black wasp's cunning way, 
Mason of his walls of clay, 
And the architectural plans 
Of gray hornet artisans ! 
For, eschewing books and tasks, 
Nature answers all he asks ; 
Hand in hand with her he walks, 
Face to face with her he talks, 
Part and parcel of her joy, 
Blessings on the barefoot boy ! 

O, for boyhood's time of June, 
Crowding years in one brief moon, 
When all things I heard or saw, 
Me, their master, waited for. 



I was rich in flowers and trees, 
Humming-birds and honey-bees; 
For my sport the squirrel played, 
Plied the snouted mole his spade ; 
For my taste the blackberry cone 
Purpled over hedge and stone ; 
Laughed the brook for my delight 
Through the day and through the night, 
Whispering at the garden wall, 
Talked with me from fall to fall ; 
Mine the sand rimmed pickerel pond, 
Mine the walnut slope beyond, 
Mine, on bending orchard trees, 
Apples of Hesperides ! 
Still, as my horizon grew, 
Larger grew my riches too ; 
All the world I saw or knew 
Seemed a complex Chinese toy, 
Fashioned for a barefoot boy ! 

0, for festal dainties spread, 
Like my bowl of milk and bread, 
Pewter spoon and bowl of wood, 
On the door-stone gray and rude ; 
O'er me, like a regal tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed the sunset bent, 
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold, 
Looped in many a wind-swung fold ; 
While for music came the play 
Of the pied frog's orchestra ; 
And, to light the noisy choir, 
Lit the fly his lamp of fire. 
I was monarch ; pomp and joy 
Waited on the barefoot boy ! 

Cheerily, then, my little man, 
Live and laugh, as boyhood can ! 
Though the flinty slopes be hard, 
Stubble-speared the new-mown sward, 
Every morn shall lead thee through 
Fresh baptisms of the dew ; 
Every evening from thy feet 
Shall the cool wind kiss the heat ; 
All too soon these feet must hide 
In the prison cells of pride, 
Lose the freedom of the sod, 
Like a colt's for work be shod, 
Made to tread the mills of toil, 
Up and down in ceaseless moil ; 
Happy if their track be found 
Never on forbidden ground ; 
Happy if they sink not in 
Quick and treacherous sands of sin. 
Ah ! that thou couldst know the joy, 
Ere it passes, barefoot boy ! 

J. G. Whittiee. 



30 



-F+- 



AN APRIL DAY. 



-Hr 




ErTEy^ HEN the warm sun, that brings 
flkwJvJ/) Seed-time and harvest, has re- 
turned again, 
"lis sweet to visit the still 
wood, where springs 
The first flower of the plain. 

I love the season well, 
"When forest glades are 

bright forms, 
Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell 

The coming on of storms. 




From the earth's loosened mould 
The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives ; 
Though stricken to the heart with winter's cold, 

The drooping tree revives. 

The softly-warbled song 
Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored 

wings 
Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves 
along 
The forest openings. 

When the bright sunset fills 
The silver woods with light, the green slope 
throws 



Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, 
And wide the upland glows. 

And when the eve is born, 
In the blue lake the sky, o'er-reaching far 
Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, 

And twinkles many a star. 

Inverted in the tide 
Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows 

throw, 
And the fair trees look over, side by side, 

And see themselves below. 

Sweet April ! many a thought 
Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed : 
Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, 

Life's golden fruit is shed. 

H. W. LONGFELLOW. 



31 





KITTIK IS GONE 



ITTIE is gone. 
Where? To hea- 
ven. An angel 
came, and took 
her away. She 
was a lovely 
child, gentle as 
gi j Hjj a lamb ; the pet of 
6 the whole family; 
S= the youngest of 
them all. Butshe 
could not stay with us any longer. * * * * 
If a little voice sweeter and more musical 
than others were heard, I knew Kittie was 
near. If my study door opened so gently 
and slily that no sound could be heard, I 
knew Kittie was coming. If after an 
hour's quiet play, a little shadow passed me, 
and the door opened and shut as no one 
else could open and shut it, " so as not to 
disturb papa," I knew Kittie was going, 
in the midst of my composing, I 



When, 



heard a gentle voice saying, " Papa, may I 
stay with you a little while? I will be 
very still ;" I did not need to look off my 
work to assure me that it was my little 
lamb. You staid with me too long, Kittie 
dear, to leave me so suddenly, and you are 
too still now. You became my little assist- 
ant, my home angel, my youngest and 
sweetest singing bird, and I miss the little 
voice that I have heard in an adjoining 
room, catching up and echoing little snatches 
of melody as they were being composed. 
I miss those soft and sweet kisses. I miss 



When the question was asked, how little 
did I think the angel was so near ! But he 
did truly come, and the sweetest flower was 
transplanted to a more genial clime. " I 
do wish papa would come." Wait a little 
while, Kittie, and papa will come. The 
journey is not long. He will soon be Home. 
William B. Bradbury. 



BENEFIT OF CHILDREN. 
AM fond of children. I think them the 
poetry of the world, the fresh flowers 
of our hearths and homes ; little con- 
jurors with their " natural magic," 
evoking by their spells what delights and 
enriches all ranks, and equalizes the differ- 
ent classes of society. Often as they bring 
with them anxieties and cares, and live to 
occasion sorrow and grief, we should get 
on very badly without them. Only think, 
if there was never anything anywhere to 
be seen, but great grown-up men and 
women ! How we should long for the 
sight of a little child ! Every infant comes 
into the world like a delegated prophet, the 
harbinger and herald of good tidings, whose 
office it is " to turn the hearts of the fathers 
to the children," and to draw " the dis- 
obedient to the wisdom of the just." A 
child softens and purifies the heart, warm- 
ing and melting it by its gentle presence ; 
it enriches the soul by new feeling, and 
awakens within it what is favorable to virtue. 
It is a beam of light, a fountain of love, 
a teacher whose lessons few can resist. In- 
fants recall us from much that engenders 



the little hand that was always first to be and encourages selfishness, that freezes the 
placed on my forehead to "drive away the affec tions, roughens the manners, indurates 
pain." I miss the sound of those little feet +i 1Q i, MTf . «,„ i m -„i, + ~, +i,„ hnmo Aemm 



pain 

upon the stairs. 



the heart : they brighten the home, deepen 
I miss you \ 0VQj invigorate exertion, infuse courage, and 
in the garden. I miss you everywhere, but vivify and sustain the cha rities of life. It 
I will try not to miss you in heaven. wouM be a terrible wldj j do tUnk> if it 
" Papa, if we are good, will an angel truly was not embellished by little children ! 
-come and take us to heaven when we die ?" Thomas Binney. 

32 



AGAINST BOYS. 




lERTAIX feeble poetasters are 
always mourning that they are 
no longer in the Classical or 
Commercial Seminary of their 
younger days, but I believe 
that there are few honest men 
who do not look back upon their school-days 
with a shudder. I was not a very bad boy 
myself, I believe, but the comparison of my 
Xow with my Then is certainly not odious. I 
can now meet a cat without wishing to kill it ; 
I can behold two dogs without yearning to 
set them by the ears ; I can listen to the 
twitter of a hedge-sparrow without longing 
for a horse-pistol ; I can pass in the street 
an individual smaller than myself without 
experiencing an uncontrollable desire to 
snatch off his cap, and throw it over the 
wall. When I go to church, I take a 
church-service in my hand, and not a novel 
of similar external appearance ; I do not 
distend my pockets with filberts purloined 
from my host's dinner-table ; I do not 
smoke bits of cane until I am sick ; I do 
not think it ungentlemanly to ride in a 'bus ; 
I am no longer irresistibly attracted to any 
barrow full of strange delicacies, such as 
Albert rock or Alicam-pane, and if I were, 
the fruit of all others I should leave 
untouched would be exposed slices of cocoa- 
nut. Upon the whole, in short, I flatter 
myself that my relations with society are 
improved since I was that dreadful being — 
a boy. If all the grown-up people in the 
world should suddenly fail, what a frightful 
thing would society become reconstructed 
by boys ! — Chambers' Journal. 




A QUESTIOH. 

Sgv*HEX yet was ever found a mother 
Who'd give her booby for another ? 

John Gat. 
3 



All aboard ! A traveler 
Sets sail for babyland ! 
^^ Before my eyes there comes a blur ; 

But still I kiss my hand, 
And try to smile as off he goes, 

My bonny, winsome boy ! 
Yes, bon voyage ! God only knows 
How much I wish thee joy. 

Oh ! tell me, have you heard of him ? 

He wore a sailor's hat 
All silver-corded round the brim, 

And — stranger e'en than that — 
A wondrous suit of navy blue, 

With pocket deep and wide ; 
Oh ! tell me, sailor, tell me true, 

How fares he on the tide ? 

We've now no baby in the house ; 

'Twas but this very morn 
He doffed his dainty, 'broidered blouse, 

With skirts of snowy lawn ; 
And shook a mass of silken curls 

From off his sunny brow ; 
They fretted him — " so like a girl's," 

Mamma can have them now. 

He owned a brand-new pocket-book, 

But that he could not find ; 
A knife and string was all he took, 

What did he leave behind ? 
A heap of blocks with letters gay, 

And here and there a toy ; 
I cannot pick them up to-day, 

My heart is with my boy. 

Ho! Ship ahoy! At boyhood's town 

Cast anchor strong and deep, 
What tears upon this little gown, 

Left for mamma to keep ? 
Weep not, but smile ; for through the air 

A merry message rings — 
" Just sell it to the rag man there ; 
I've done with baby things !" 

:o: 

A BETTER "WAY. 
^E should gain our object better in the 
discipline of children, if, instead of 
finding fault with an action, we set our- 
selves to produce a better state of feeling 
without noticing the action. 

Mary P. Wabe. 



33 



WHAT'S A BOY LIKE? 







af $ h Hmj ^ptiJcis ? 



IKE a wasp, like a sprite, 
-*— ' Like a goose, like an eel, 
Like a top, like a kite, 

Like an owl, like a wheel, 
Like the wind, like a snail, 
Like a knife, like a crow, 
Like a thorn, like a flail, 
Like a hawk, like a doe. 

Like the sea, like a weed, 

Like a watch, like the sun, 
Like a cloud, like a seed, 

Like a book, like a gun, 
Like a smile, like a tree, 

Like a lamb, like the moon, 
Like a bud, like a bee, 

Like a burr, like a tune. 

Like a colt, like a whip, 

Like a mouse, like a mill, 
Like a bell, like a ship, 

Like a jay, like a rill, 
Like a shower, like a cat, 

Like a frog, like a toy, 
Like a ball, like a bat, 

Most of all — like a boy. 

George Cooper. 



J*ragtag m u §wds law, 

SWINGING on a birch tree 
To a sleepy tune, 
Hummed by all the breezes 

In the month of June! 
Little leaves a-flutter 

Sound like dancing drops 
Of a brook on pebbles — 
Song that never stops. 

Up and down we see-saw; 

Up into the sky ; 
How it opens on us, 

Like a wide blue eye! 
You and I are sailors 

Rocking on a mast ; 
And the world's our vessel : 

Ho ! she sails so fast ! 

Blue, blue sea around us ; 
. Not a ship in sight ; 
They will hang out lanterns 

When they pass to-night. 
We with ours will follow 

Through the midnight deep; 
Not a thought of danger, 

Though the crew's asleep. 

Oh, how still the air is ! 

There an oriole flew; 
What a jolly whistle ! 

He's a sailor, too. 
Yonder is his hammock 

In the elm-top high ; 
One more ballad, messmate; 

Sing it as you fly ! 

Up and down we see-saw: 

Down into the grass, 
Scented fern and rose-buds, 

All a woven mass. 
That's the sort of carpet 

Fitted for our feet; 
Tapestry nor velvet 

Is so rich and neat. 

Swinging on a birch tree! 

This is summer joy, 
Fun for all vacation — 

Don't you think so, boy? 
Up and down to see-saw, 

Merry and at ease, 
Careless as a brook is, 

Idle as the breeze. 

Lucy Larcom. 



34 




HOW MAMMA PLAYS. 



J 



UST the sweetest thing that the children do 
Is to play with mamma, a-playing too ; 
And " Baby is lost," they think is the best, 
For mamma plays that with a merry zest. 



" My baby's lost!" up and down mamma goes, 
A-peering about and following her nose, 
Inside the papers, and under the books, 
And all in between the covers she looks, 

"Baby! Baby!" calling. 
But though in her way is papa's tall hat, 
She never once thinks to look under that. 

She listens, she stops, she hears the wee laugh, 
And around she flies, the faster by half, 
" Why, where can he be ?" and she opens the clock, 
She tumbles her basket, she shakes papa's sock, 

" Baby ! Baby !" calling. 
While the children all smile at papa's tall hat, 
Though none of them go and look under that. 

A sweet coo calls. Mamma darts everywhere, 
She feels in her pockets to see if he's there, 
In every vase on the mantel shelf, 
She searches sharp for the little elf, 
''Baby! Baby!" calling. 



Another coo comes from papa's tall hat, 
Yet none of them.stir an inch toward that. 

Somewhere he certainly must be, she knows, 
So up to the China cupboard she goes; 
The covers she lifts from the sugar-bowls, 
The sweet, white lumps she rattles and rolls, 

" Baby ! Baby !" calling. 
But though there's a stir near papa's tall hat, 
They will not so much as look toward that. 

She moves the dishes, but baby is not 

In the cream-pitcher nor in the tea-pot ; 

And she wrings her hands and stamps on the floor. 

She shakes the rugs, and she opens the door, 

" Baby ! Baby !" calling. 
They stand with their backs to papa's tall hat, 
Though the sweetest murmurs come from that. 

The children join in the funny distress, 
Till mamma, all sudden, with swift caress, 
Makes a pounce right down on the old, tall black hat 
And brings out the baby from under that, 

"Baby! Baby!" calling. 
And this is the end of the little play, 
The children would like to try every day. 

Ella Faemajt. 



35 



OUR UM3S. 




I loved them so 
That when the Elder Shepherd of the fold 
Came covered with the storm, and pale and cold- 
And begged for one of my sweet lamhs to hold, 

I bade Him go. 

He claimed the pet — 
A little fondling thing that to my breast 
Clung always, either in quiet or unrest — 
I thought of all my lambs I loved him best, 

And yet — and yet — 

I laid him down 
In those white shrouded arms, with bitter tears ; 
For some voice told me that in after years, 
He should know naught of passion, grief or fears 

As I had known. 

And yet again 
That Elder Shepherd came. My heart grew faint. 
He claimed another lamb, with sadder plaint. 
Another ! She who, gentle as a saint, 

Ne'er gave me pain. 

Aghast, I turned away. 
There sat she, lovely as an angel's dream, 
Her golden locks with sunlight all agleam, 
Her holy eyes with heaven in their beam. 

I knelt to pray, 

"Is it Thy will? 
My Father, say, must this pet lamb be given ? 
Oh ! Thou hast many such in heaven." 
And a soft voice said : " Nobly hast thou striven, 

But — peace, be still." 

Oh ! how I wept, 
And clasped her to my bosom, with a wild 
And yearning love — my lamb, my pleasant child. 
Her, too, I gave. The little angel smiled, 

And slept. 



"Go! go!" I cried: 
For once again that Shepherd laid His hand 
Upon the noblest of our household band. 
Like a pale spectre, there He took His stand, 

Close to his side. 

And yet how wondrous sweet 
The look with which He heard my passionate cry: 
* Touch not my lamb ; for him, oh ! let me die !' 
" A little while," He said, with smile and sigh, 

" Again to meet." 

Hopeless I fell ; 
And when I rose, the light had burned so low, 
So faint, I could not see my darling go : 
He had not bidden me farewell, but, oh ! 

I felt farewell. 

More deeply far 
Than if my arms had compassed that slight frame, 
Though could I but have heard him call my name — 
" Dear Mother !" — but in heaven 'twill be the same. 

There burns my star ! 

He will not take 
Another lamb, I thought, for only one 
Of the dear fold is spared, to be my sun, 
My guide, my mourner when this life is done. 

My heart would break. 

Oh ! with what thrill 
I heard Him enter ; but I did not know 
(For it was dark) that He had robbed me so, 
The idol of my soul — he could not go — 

O heart ! be still ! 

Came morning, can I tell 
How this poor frame its sorrowful tenant kept? 
For waking, tears were mine ; I, sleeping, wept, 
And days, months, years, that weary vigil kept. 

Alas! "Farewell." 

How often it is said ! 
I sit and think, and wonder, too, sometime, 
How it will seem, when, in that happier clime 
It never will ring out like funeral chime 

Over the dead. 

No tears ! no tears ! 
Will there a day come that I shall not weep ? 
For I bedew my pillow in my sleep, 
Yes, yes ; thank God ! no grief that clime shall keep, 

No weary years. 



36 



OUR LAMBS. 



Ay, it is well ; 
Well with my lambs, and with their earthly guide, 
There, pleasant rivers wander they beside, 
Or strike sweet harps upon its silver tide — 

Ay ! it is well. 

Through the dreary day, 
They often come from glorious light to me; 
I cannot feel their touch, their faces see, 
Yet my soul whispers, they do come to me. 

Heaven is not far away. 



— 1-0+- 




(thz Child and the (Mourners. 



LITTLE child beneath a tree, 
Sat and chanted cheerily 
A little song, a pleasant song, 
Which was — she sang it all 

day long — 
"When the wind blows the 

blossoms fall : 
But a good God reigns over 

all." 
There pass'd a lady by the way, 
Moaning in the face of day : 
There were tears upon her cheek, 
Grief in her heart too great to speak ; 
Her husband died but yester-morn, 
And left her in the world forlorn. 

She stopp'd and listen'd to the child 

That look'd to heaven, and, singing, smiled ; 

And saw not, for her own despair, 

Another lady, young and fair, 

Who also passing, stopp'd to hear 

The infant's anthem ringing clear. 

For she but few sad days before 
Had lost the little babe she bore ; 
And grief was heavy at her soul 
As that sweet memory o'er her stole, 
And show'd how bright had been the past, 
The present drear and overcast. 

And as they stood beneath the tree 
Listening, soothed and placidly, 
A youth came by, whose sunken eyes 
Spake of a load of miseries ; 
And he, arrested like the twain, 
Stopp'd to listen to the strain. 

Death had bow'd the youthful head 
Of his bride beloved, his bride unwed : 



Her marriage robes were fitted on, 
Her fair young face with blushes shone, 
When the destroyer smote her low, 
And changed the lover's bliss to woe. 

And these three listen'd to the song, 
Silver-toned, and sweet, and strong, 
Which that child, the livelong day, 
Chanted to itself in play: 
" When the wind blows the blossoms fall : 
But a good God reigns over all." 

The widow's lips impulsive moved ; 
The mother's grief, though unreproved, 
Soften'd, as her trembling tongue 
Repeated what the infant sung ; 
And the sad lover, with a start, 
Conn'd it over to his heart. 

And though the child — if child it were, 

And not a seraph sitting there — 

Was seen no more, the sorrowing three 

Went on their way resignedly, 

The song still ringing in their ears — 

Was it the music of the spheres ? 

Who shall tell ? They did not know, 
But in the midst of deepest woe 
The strain recurr'd, when sorrow grew, 
To warn them, and console them too : 
" When the wind blows the blossoms fall ; 
But a good God reigns over all." 

Charles Mackay. 



<*--«-¥•-! 



~h+- 



Devotion in Childhood. 

§T is of the last importance to season 
the passions of a child with devotion, 
which seldom dies in a mind that has 
received an early tincture of it. Though 
it may seem extinguished for a while by 
the cares of the world, the heats of youth, 
or the allurements of vice, it generally 
breaks out and discovers itself again as soon 
as discretion, consideration, age, or misfor- 
tunes have brought the man to himself. 
The fire may be covered and overlaid, but 
cannot be entirely quenched and smothered. 

Joseph Addison. 



37 



MY BABY. 




UCH a little break 
in the sod ! 
So tiny to be a 
grave ! 
Oh ! how can I ren- 
der so soon to God 
The beautiful gift 
he gave ! 
Must I put you 
away, my pet — 
My tender bud 
unblown — 

With the dew of the morning upon you, yet, 
And your blossom all unshown ? 

My heart is near to break, 

For the voice I shall not hear, 
For the clinging arms around my neck, 

And the footsteps drawing near. 
The tiny, tottering feet, 

Striving for mother's knee, 
For the lisping tones so sweet, 

And the baby's kiss to me. 

For the precious mother-name, 

And the touch of the little hand, 
O ! am I so very much to blame 

If I shrink frcm the sore demand? 
How shall I know her voice, 

Or the greeting of her eyes, 
'Mid the countless cherubs that rejoice, 

In the gardens of Paradise ? 

How shall I know my own, 

Where the air is white with wings — 
My babe, so soon from my bosom flown, 

To the angels' ministerings ? 
And this is the end of it all ! 

Of my waiting and my pa*i — 
Only a little funeral pall, 

And empty arms again. 

O, baby ! my heart is sore 

For the love that was to be, 
For the untried dream of love, now o'er, 

'Twixt thee, my child, and me. 
Yet over this little head, 

Lying so still on ny knee, 
I thank my God for the bliss of the dead, 

For the joy of the soul set free. 

'Tis a weary world at best, 
This world that she will not know ; 

Would I waken her out of such perfect rest, 
For its sorrow and strife ? Ah, no ! 



Escaped are its thorns and harms ; 

The only path she hath trod 

Is that which leads from the mother's arms 

Into the arms of God. — The Evangelist. 
•— ♦ — ♦ 

DOMESTIC BLISS. 

I am 
" A married lady of thirty odd." 
Every morning I see in their beds 
A " baker's dozen " of curly heads ; 
Every morning my slumbers greet 
The patter, patter, of twenty-six feet. 
Thirteen little hearts are always in a nutter, 
Till thirteen little mouths are filled with breau 

and butter. 
Thirteen little tongues are busy all day long, 
And thirteen little hands with doing something 
wrong. 

Till I fain am to do 
With an energy too, 
As did the old woman who lived in a shoe. 
And when my poor husband comes home from his 

work, 
Tired and hungry, and fierce as a Turk, 
What do you think is the picture he sees ? 
A legion of babies, all in a breeze. 
Johnny a crying, 
And Lucy a sighing, 
And worn-out mamma, with her hair all a flying, 
Strong and angry Stephen 

Beating little Nelly ; 
Willie in the pantry 
Eating currant jelly ; 
Charlie strutting round in papa's Sunday coat; 
Harry at the glass, with a razor at his throat ; 
Robert gets his fingers crushed when Susy shuts 

the door, 
Mitigates their aching with a forty pounder roar ; 
Baby at the coal-hod hurries to begin 
Throwing in his mite to the universal din. 
Alas! my lord and master, being rather weak of 

nerve, he 
Begins to lose his patience in the stunning topsy- 
turvy, 
And then the frightened little ones all fly to me 

for shelter, 
And so the drama closes 'mid a general helter- 
skelter. 

I'll give you my name, 
Lest you think me a myth. 
Yours, very respectfully, 

Mes. John Smith. 



38 




HO took him on mother could possibly be." "I am so 



the other side?" 
A pair of soft blue 
eyes, full of ten- 
derness and tears, 
looked up into 
mine. " On the 
other side ! What 
do you mean, my 
darling ?" and I 
looked wondering 
at the child. " Baby, I mean. He was so 
small and weak, and had to go all aloue. 
Who took him on the other side?" 
"Angels," I answered, as steadily as I could 
speak, for the child's question moved me 
deeply, — " loving angels, who took him up 
tenderly and laid his head softly on their 
bosoms, and sang to him sweeter songs than 
he had ever heard in this world." " But 
every one will be strange to him. I'm 
afraid he'll be grieved for mother and nurse 
and me." " No, dear. The Saviour, who 
was once a baby in this world, is there ; 
and the angels who are nearest to him take 
all the little children who leave our side, 
and love and care for them just as if they 
were their own. When baby passed through 
to the other side, one of these angels held 
him by the hand all the way, and he was 
not in the least afraid ; and when the light 
of heaven broke upon his eyes, and he saw 
the new beauty of the new world into which 
he had entered, his little heart was full of 
gladness." " You are sure of that ?" 
The grief had almost faded out of the 
child's countenance. " Yes, dear, very sure. 
The Lord, who so tenderly loves little 
children, who took them in his arms and 
blessed them when he was on earth, who 
said that ' their angels do always behold the 
face of my Father,' is more careful of the 
babes who go to him than the tenderest 



glad !" said the child ; " and it makes me 
feel so much better ! Dear baby ! I didn't 
know who would take him on the other 
side." — Children's Hour. 



TO ABTHUB, ASLEEP. 

STILLY, oh, very stilly, with clasp'd hands, 
That would hush down the beating of my 
heart, 
.1 stand and watch thy slumbers. Round thee now, 
Like silver clouds flung on a summer sky, 
The snowy curtains tremble, and betwixt 
Their loopings — a baptismal scent of heaven — 
Plashes the sunshine on thy face and hair. 
bud of one brief summer, by that smile, 
Like light on opening roses, do I know 
The angels are with thee, — that those blue eyes 
Which break up to me in their sudden joy, 
(As I have pray'd God's seraphs might some day,) 
Still watch the radiance of those sapphire hills, 
From which so late thou'st wandered. 

One white hand, 
Like an unfolding lily, is crush'd up 
Amid the clustering curls, whose golden hues 
Were caught among thy mother's. 

Oh, most fair 
And heaven-like picture that the world can throw 
Along its changeful canvas, — child asleep ! 
Through my dim tears, I stand to-day and watch 
Mournful above thy rest ; I who have walk'd 
Out from the gates of childhood, and who wear 
The " burden and the weariness of life " 
On heart and forehead. 

What of joy or good 
(Stringing along this hush the future's pearls) 
Shall shape my prayer for thee, that life may lay 
Her gold, her myrrh, and incense at thy feet, — 
Her jewels round thy brow? 

Not these — not these — 
Be my heart's asking. May our Father lead 
Thy young feet tenderly across the hills 
To the "far country," and it shall be well,— 
Well with thee, sweetest, even if thy life 
Take but the key-note here, and sing the song 
Upon the purple mountains ! So sleep on, 
Thy smile the loving chorus of my prayer: — 
" In life or death may God be with the child /" 

VlKGINIA F. T0W> T SEND. 



39 




DELICATE child, pale and prematurely wise, was com- 
plaining, on a hot morning, that the dew-drops had been 
too hastily snatched away, and not allowed to glitter on 
the flowers, like other happier dew-drops that live the 
whole night through, and sparkle in the moon- 
light, and through the morning, onwards to 
noonday. " The sun," said the child, " has chased 
them away with his heat, or swallowed them in 
his wrath." Soon after came rain and a rainbow ; 
whereupon his father pointed upwards. " See !" 
said he, " there stands thy dew-drops, gloriously 
reset, a glittering jewelry in the heavens; and 
the clownish foot tramples on them no more. By 
this, my child, thou art taught that what withers 
on earth blooms again in heaven." Thus the 
father spoke, and knew not that he spoke pre- 
figuring words ; for, soon after, the delicate child 
with the moruing brightness of his earthly wisdom, was exhaled, like a dew-drop, into 
heaven. Jean Paul Eichtee. 



IS THERE ROOM IN ANGEL LAND? 



These lines were written after hearing the following 
touching incident related by a minister : A mother, who 
was preparing some flour to bake into bread, left it for 
a moment, when little Mary, with childish curiosity to 
see what it was, took hold of the dish, when it fell to 
the floor, spilling the contents. The mother struck the 
child a severe blow, saying, with anger, that she was 
always in the way. Two weeks after, little Mary sick- 
ened and died. On her death-bed, while delirious, she 
asked her mother if there would be room for her among 
the angels. " I was always in your way, mother ; you 
had no room for little Mary ! And will I be in the 
angels' way? Will they have room for me?" The 
broken-hearted mother then felt no sacrifice would be 
too great, could she have saved her child. 

Is there room among the angels 

For the spirit of your child? 
Will they take your little Mary 

In their loving arms so mild? 
Will they ever love me fondly, 

As my story-books have said? 
Will they find a home for Mary — 

Mary, numbered with the dead ? 
Tell me truly, darling mother ! 

Is there room for such as me? 
Will I gain the home of spirits, 

And the shining angels see ? 



I have sorely tried you, mother, 

Been to you a constant care, 
And you will not miss me, mother, 

When I dwell among the fair; 
For you have no room for Mary ; 

She was ever in your way ; 
And she fears the good will shun her ! 

Will they, darling mother, say? 
Tell me — tell me truly — mother, 

Ere life's closing hour doth come, 
Do you think that they will keep me, 

In the shining angels' home ? 

I was not so wayward, mother, 

Not so very — very bad, 
But that tender love would nourish, 

And make Mary's heart so glad! 
Oh ! I yearned for pure affection, 

In this world of bitter woe ; 
And I yearn for bliss immortal, 

In the land where I must go ! 
Tell me once again, dear mother, 

Ere you take the parting kiss, 
Will the angels bid me welcome, 

To that land of perfect bliss ? 



40 



Ill 



1,9(^1 m i"io 





WISH you 
wouldn't call me 
Dot, John. I 
don't like it," 
said Mrs. Peery- 
bingle, pouting 
in a way that 
clearly showed 
she did like it, 
very much. 
" Why, what else are you," returned 
John, looking down upon her with a smile, 
and giving her waist as light a squeeze as 
his huge hand and arm could give. " A 
dot and — " here he glanced at the baby, 
" a dot and carry — I won't say it, for fear 
I should spoil it ; but I was very near a 
joke. I don't know as ever I was nearer." 
He was often near to something or other 
very clever, by his own account; this 
lumbering, slow, honest John ; this John 
so heavy, but so light of spirit ; so rough 
upon the surface, but so gentle at the core ; 
so dull without, so quick within ; so stolid, 
but so good ! Oh, Mother Nature, give thy 
children the true poetry of heart that hid 
itself in this poor Carrier's breast — he was 
but a Carrier, by the way — and we can 
bear to have them talking prose, and lead- 
ing lives of prose ; and bear to bless thee for 
their company. 

It was pleasant to see Dot, with her little 
figure, and her baby in her arms — a very 
doll of a baby — glancing with a coquettish 
thoughtfulness at the fire, and inclining her 
delicate little head just enough on one side 
to let it rest in an odd, half-natural, half- 
affected, wholly nestling and agreeable 
manner, on the great rugged figure of the 
Carrier. It was pleasant to see him, with 
his tender awkwardness, endeavoring to 



adapt his rude support to her slight need, 
and make his burlv middle-age a leaning- 
staff not inappropriate to her blooming 
youth. It was pleasant to observe how 
Tilly Slowboy, waiting in the back-ground 
for the baby, took special cognizance 
(though in her earliest teens) of this group- 
ing ; and stood with her mouth and eyes 
wide open, and her head thrust forward, 
taking it in as if it were air. Nor was it 
less agreeable to observe how John the 
Carrier, reference being made by Dot to the 
aforesaid baby, checked his hand when on 
the point of touching the infant, as if he 
thought he might crush it ; and bending; 
down, surveyed it from a safe distance with 
a kind of puzzled pride, such as an amiable 
mastiff might be supposed to show, if he 
found himself, one day, the father of a 
young canary. 

Charles Dickens. 



ILLUSIONS. 

WHEN the boys come into my yard 
for leave to gather horse-chestnuts, 
I own I enter into Nature's game, and 
affect to grant the permission reluctantly, 
feeling that any moment they will find out 
the imposture of that showy chaff. But 
this tenderness is quite unnecessary ; the 
enchantments are laid on very thick. Their 
young life is thatched with them. Bare 
and grim to tears is the lot of the children 
in the hovel I saw yesterday ; yet not the 
less they hang it round with frippery 
romance, like the children of the happiest 
fortune. 

R. W. Emerson. 



41 



ADVANTAGE OF CHILDREN. 



ADVANTAGE OF CHILDREN. 



HAT would 
an engine 
be to a ship 
if it were 
lying loose 
in the hull? 
It must be 
fastened to 
it with bolts 
and screws before it can propel the vessel. 
Now a childless man is like a loose engine. 
A man must be bolted and screwed to the 
community before he can work well for its 
advancement ; and there are no such screws 
and bolts as children. 

Henry Ward Beecher. 




LINES ON THE DEATH OF A CHitf). 

EEHOLD a seraph soaring 
From out our weary world ; 
In robes of white, 
One starlit night, 
With spirit-wings unfurled, 
He took his flight 
To the gates of light, 
To make his dwelling there, 
Seraphic songs outpouring 
Upon the silent air. 

Oh, how he loved thee, mother, 
Thy bosom was his bed ; 

'Twas sweet to rest 

On thy soft breast 
The little weary head ; 

To feel thee press 

With fond caress 
The bright and radiant brow, 
But the blessed " Elder Brother" 
Will cherish " baby " now. 

Life lay, untrod, before him, 
The future all unknown ; 
How might the years 
Have flowed with tears, 



Till laughter changed to moan ! 

How might the strife 

Of human life 
Have brought his soul to harm ! 
But now a shield is o'er him — 
The Everlasting Arm ! 

The paths of bliss unbounded 
His feet already tread — 
The heavenly fields 
Whose harvest yields 
The true and living bread. 
On fruitful hills 
By placid rills 
The lambs of Jesus feed ; 
By heaven's wealth surrounded, 
What can he ever need ? 

Dear weeping father, mother, 
How could he longer wait 

When Jesus calls ? 

From jasper walls 
Swung wide the golden gate. 

But he will stand 

At God's right hand, 
To wait and watch for you ; 
And there will be another 
To bid you " welcome " too. 

And so he left you, winging 
His upward flight afar, 

Till, through the night, 

There shone the light 
Of one more radiant star ! 

Through countless years 

No bitter tears 
Shall dim those lustrous eyes ; 
No sighs shall mar the singing 
Beneath those cloudless skies ! 



THE POOR MAN'S RICHES. 

I remember a great man coming into my 
house at Waltham, and, seeing all my chil- 
dren standing in the order of their age and 
stature, he said, " These are they that make 
rich men poor." But he straight received 
this answer, " Nay, my lord, these are they 
that make a poor man rich ; for there is not 
one of these whom we would part with for 
all your wealth." 



Bishop Hall. 



42 



gg oooo <; 



EARLY SPRING. 




ROM the sod no crocus peeps, 

And the snow-drop scarce is seen, 
And the daffodil yet sleeps 

In its shelt'ring sheath of green ; 
Yet the naked groves among 

Is an homeless music heard, 
And a welcoming is sung, 

Till the leafless boughs are stirred 
With a spirit and a life 

Which is floating all around ; 
And the covert glades are rife 

With the new awakened sound 
Of the birds, whose voices pour 

In an interrupted strain, 
As they scarcely were secure 

That the Spring was come again. 
Soon the seasonable flowers 

Will a glad assurance bring, 
To their fresh and leafy bowers 

Of the presence of the Spring ; 
And these snatches of delight 

Are the prelude of a song 
That will daily gather might, 

And endure the Summer long. 



R. C. Teench 



pf^ELCOME, pale Primrose ! starting up between 
Dead matted leaves of ash and oak that strew 
The every lawn, the wood, and spinney through, 

'Mid creeping moss and ivy's darker green ; 

How much thy presence beautifies the ground ! 

How sweet thy modest unaffected pride 

Glows on the sunny bank and wood's warm side ! 

And where thy fairy flowers in groups are found, 

The schoolboy roams enchantedly along, 

Plucking the fairest with a rude delight : 

While the meek shepherd stops his simple song, 

To gaze a moment on the pleasing sight ; 

O'erjoyed to see the flowers that truly bring 

The welcome news of sweet returning Spring. 

43 



JOHK CLAKE. 



► -V4-3. 




H, thou bright thing, fresh from the hand of God ; 



The motions of thy dancing limbs are swayed 
By the unceasing music of thy being ! 
Nearer I seem to God when looking on thee. 
'Tis ages since He made His youngest star, 
His hand was on thee as 'twere yesterday, 
Thou later revelation ! Silver stream, 
Breaking with laughter from the lake divine 
Whence all things flow. O bright and singing babe, 
What wilt thou be hereafter ? 

Alexander Smith. 



-V»— a 



ilKK 4111 111 llffi 



tmt 




HE Master has come over Jordan," 
Said Hannah, the mother, one day, 
" He is healing the people who throng 
him 
With a touch of his finger, they say. 

" And now I shall carry the children — 
Little Kachel, and Samuel, and John, 

I shall carry the baby, Esther, 
For the Lord to look upon." 



The father looked at her kindly, 
But he shook his head and smiled ; 

" Now, who but a doting mother 
Would think of a thing so wild ? 

" If the children were tortured by demons, 
Or dying of fever, 'twere well, 

Or had they the taint of the leper, 
Like many in Israel." 

" Nay, do not hinder me, Nathan — 

I feel such a burden of care ; 
If I carry it to the Master, 

Perhaps I shall leave it there. 

" If he lay his hand on the children, 
My heart will be lighter, I know, 

For a blessing forever and ever 
Will follow them as they go." 



So over the hills to Judah, 

Along by the vine-rows green, 
With Esther asleep on her bosom, 

And Eachel her brothers between, 

'Mong the people who hung on his teaching, 
Or waited his touch and his word, 

Through the row of proud Pharisees listening, 
She pressed to the foot of the Lord. 

" Now, why shouldst thou hinder the Master,' 
Said Peter, " with children like these ? 

Seest not how, from morning till evening, 
He teacheth, and healeth disease?" 

Then Christ said, " Forbid not the children — 

Permit them to come unto me." 
And he took in his arms little Esther, 

And Rachel he set on his knee ; 

And the heavy heart of the mother 

Was lifted all earth-care above, 
And he laid his hands on the brothers, 

And blest them with tenderest love ; 

As he said of the babes in his bosom, 
" Of such is the kingdom of heaven ;" 

And strength for all duty and trial 
That hour to her spirit was given. 

Julia Gill. 



44 



HAVE a son, a little son, a boy just five I do not think his light-blue eye is, like his 

years old, brother's, keen, 

With eyes of thoughtful earnestness and Nor his brow so full of childish thought as his 

mind of gentle mould. hath ever been ; 

They tell me that unusual grace in all his But his little heart's a fountain pure of kind and 
ways appears, tender feeling, 

That my child is grave and wise of heart beyond And his every look's a gleam of light, rich depths 

his childish years. of love revealing. 

I cannot say how this may be; I know his face is When he walks with me, the country folk, who 

fair — pass us in the street, 

And yet his chiefest comeliness is his sweet and Will shout for joy, and bless my boy, he looks so 

serious air ; mild and sweet. 

I know his heart is kind and fond, I know he A playfellow is he to all ; and yet, with cheerful 

loveth me, tone, 

But loveth yet his mother more with grateful Will sing his little song of love when left to sport 

fervency. alone. 

But that which others most admire is the thought His presence is like sunshine sent to gladden 

that fills his mind — home and hearth, 

The food for grave, inquiring speech he every- To comfort us in all our griefs, and sweeten all 

where doth find. our mirth. 

Strange questions doth he ask of me when we Should he grow up to riper years, God grant his 

together walk ; heart may prove 

He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as As sweet a home for heavenly grace as now for 

children talk ; earthly love ; 

Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not And if, beside his grave, the tears our aching eyes 

on bat or ball, must dim, 

But looks on manhood's ways and works, and God comfort us for all the love that we shall lose 

aptly mimics all. in him. 

His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes per- 

,_. , , , , , . , , „ I have a son, a third sweet son, his age I cannot 

With thoughts about this world of ours, and t i. 

_ , ; • -i 1,1 i i For they reckon not by years and months where 

He kneels at his dear mother s knee ; she teacheth , • . ■, ■,-, 

he is gone to dwell. 

, To us, for fourteen anxious months, his infant 
And strange and sweet and solemn then are the -i 

& smiles were given, 

„, , , : ■ \ , And then he bade farewell to earth, and went to 

Oh, should my gentle child be spared to man- v . , 

' 1-1 " ve in heaven. 

. , ,. i '. ', , I cannot tell what form is his, what looks he 

A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be ; ,i_ 

. , , _ . , . J , . , , . ' weareth now, 

And when I look into his eves and stroke his xr i. i. • n i i • u- • 

, „ , , - .Nor guess how bright a glory crowns his shining 

thoughtful brow, u x. 

TJ :,!•, , T , in-, -r ■. seraph brow. 

1 dare not think what I should feel were I to lose m. 4,-u 11 ^ ± ^n u- • i i j-u uv 

The thoughts that fill his sinless soul, the bliss 

which he doth feel. 
Are number'd with the sacred things which God 
I have a son, a second son, a simple child of three ; will not reveal. 

I'll not declare how bright and fair his little fea- But I know (for God hath told me this) that he is 

tures be, now at rest, 

How silver sweet those tones of his when he Where other blessed infants be — on their Saviour's 
prattles on my knee ; loving breast. 

45 



THE THREE SONS. 



I know his spirit feels no more this weary load 

of flesh, 
But his sleep is bless'd with endless dreams of joy 

for ever fresh. 
I know the angels fold him close beneath their 

glittering wings. 
And soothe him with a song that breathes of 

heaven's divinest things. 
I know that we shall meet our babe (his mother 

dear and I) 
Where God for aye shall wipe away all tears from 

every eye. 
Whate'er befalls his brethren twain, his bliss can 

never cease ; 
Their lot may here be grief and fear, but his is 

certain peace. 
It may be that the tempter's wiles their souls 

from bliss may sever ; 
But, if our own poor faith fail not, he must be 

ours for ever. 
When we think of what our darling is, and what 

we still must be — 
When we muse on that world's perfect bliss and 

this world's misery — 
When we groan beneath this load of sin, and feel 

this grief and pain — 
Oh, we'd rather lose our other two than have him 

here again ! John Moultrie. 

Jpsoaoraejgj sooooc^ 

N tip-toe I entered the bed-room 

of baby ; 
And trembling I parted the 

gossamer curtains 
Where baby lay, fair as a fresh 

morning glory. 

Like petals of purest and pinkest petunias. 
Four delicate fingers crept out of their nestling, 
Transparent and chubby, they rest on the crib's 

edge, 
And draping the fingers, a fringe of crochet-work, 
As flossy and light as a net-web of snow lace, 
Lay, kissing them daintily — ever so daintily ! 
Nails soft and so tiny, and tinted like pink-buds, 
Looked up to me temptingly— "ever so cunning;" 
And asked me to kiss them, and oh ! how I longed to, 
But dare not, for baby was smiling so sweetly 
I knew he beheld then an angel-face near him. 

Loose ringed, on his temples of pure alabaster, 
Lay curls of the softest and lightest of texture, 
As sketched by a crayon of delicate gold-tint ; 
Such curls as the gods gave to Cupid and Psyche ! 




Those kissable curls, with their live, springing 
tendrils, 

Came up to my lips, and went down to my heart- 
strings. 

Those eyelids so filmy, translucent as amber, 
Were colored and toned by the blue eyes beneath 

them, 
To softest of purple. marvellous eyelids ! 
Ah! what is this clinging so close to my heart- 
string, 
'Tis fear — that I know by the thrill in my bosom? 
'Tis born of these ringlets and fingers and eyelids : 
Born of this beauty too precious for mortals ; 
It tells me I look on the face of an angel 
That lies there deceiving my soul by concealing 
Its pinions beneath the blue waves of the velvet. 

I'll wake him ! the darling ! with kisses I'll wake 

him. 
There ! there ! I have reddened the white brow 

of baby, 
Between those two limnings of delicate lace work — 
The rarest of eyebrows ; his laugh reassures me ! 
I'll crush him down hard, wings and all, on my 

bosom. Knickerbocker. 

eooooo g oooo o o 

"LITTLE CHILDREN." 

EEP a guard on your words, my darlings, 
For words are wonderful things, 
They are sweet, like the bees' fresh 
honey, 
Like the bees, they have terrible 
stings. 
They can bless, like the warm, glad sunshine, 

And brighten a lonely life, 
They can cut, in the strife of anger, 
Like an open, two-edged knife. 

Let them pass through your lips unchallenged, 

If their errand is true and kind ; 
If they come to support the weary, 

To comfort and help the blind. 
If a bitter, revengeful spirit 

Prompts the words, let them be unsaid ; 
They may flash through a brain like lightning, 

Or fall on a heart like lead. 

Keep them back if they're cold and cruel, 

Under bar, and lock, and seal ; 
The wounds they make, my darlings, 

Are always slow to heal. 
May peace guard your lives, and ever, 

From this time of your early youth, 
May the words that you daily utter 

Be the beautiful words of truth. 




46 




S any weak soul fright- 
ened that I should write 
of the Religion of the 
boy ? How, indeed, could 
I cover the field of his 
moral or intellectual 
growth, if I left unnoticed 
those dream of futurity 
and of goodness, which 
come sometimes to his 
quieter moments, and 
oftener to his hours of vexation and trouble ? 
It would be as wise to describe the season of 
Spring with no note of the silent influences of 
that burning Day-god which is melting day 
by day the shattered ice-drifts of Winter — 
which is filling every bud with succulence, 
and painting one flower with crimson, and 
another with white. 

I know there is a feeling — by much too 
general, as it seems to me — that the subject 
may not be approached except through the 
dicta of certain ecclesiastical bodies, and 
that the language which touches it must not 
be that every-day language which mirrors 
the vitality of our thought, but should 
have some twist of that theologic manner- 
ism, which is as cold to the boy as to the 
busy man of the world. 

I know very well that a great many good 
souls will call levity what I call honesty, 
and will abjure that familiar handling of 
the boy's lien upon Eternity which my 
story will show. But I shall feel sure, 
that, in keeping true to Nature with word 
and with thought, I shall in no way offend 
against those highest truths to which all 
truthfulness is kindred. 

You have Christian teachers, who speak 
always reverently of the Bible ; you grow 



up in the hearing of daily prayers ; nay, 
you are perhaps taught to say them. 

Sometimes they have a meaning, and 
sometimes they have none. They have a 
meaning when your heart is troubled, when 
a grief or a wrong weighs upon you : then 
the keeping of the Father, which you 
implore, seems to come from the bottom 
of your soul ; and your eye suffuses with 
such tears of feeling as you count holy, and 
as you love to cherish in your memory. 

But they have no meaning when some 
trifling vexation angers you, and a distaste 
for all about you breeds a distaste for all 
above you. In the long hours of toilsome 
days little thought comes over you of the 
morning prayer; and only when evening 
deepens its shadows, and your boyish vexa- 
tions fatigue you to thoughtfulness, do you 
dream of that coming and endless night, to 
which — they tell you — prayer softens the 
way. 

Sometimes upon a Summer Sunday, when 
you are wakeful upon your seat in church, 
with some strong worded preacher who says 
things that half fright you, it occurs to you 
to consider how much goodness you are 
made of; and whether there be enough of 
it after all to carry you safely away from 
the clutch of Evil ? And straightway you 
reckon up those friendships where your 
heart lies ; you know you are a true and 
honest friend to Frank ; and you love your 
mother, and your father, as for Nelly, 
Heaven knows, you could not contrive a 
way to love her better than you do. 

You dare not take much credit to your- 
self for the love of little Madge — partly 
because you have sometimes caught yourself 
trying — not to love her ; and partly because 



47 



BOY RELIGION. 

the black-eyed Jenny comes in the way. life — whatever may be the ill-advised ex- 
Yet you can find no command in the Cate- pressions of human teachers — will you ever 
chism to love one girl to the exclusion of all find that Duty performed, and generous 
other girls. It is somewhat doubtful if you endeavor will stand one whit in the way 
ever do find it. But as for loving some either of Faith or of Love. Striving to 
half-dozen you could name, whose images be good is a very direct road toward Good- 
drift through your thought, in dirty, salmon- ness, and if life be so tempered by high 
colored frocks, and slovenly shoes, it is motive as to make actions always good, 
quite impossible ; and suddenly this thought, Faith is unconsciously won. 
coupled with a lingering remembrance of Another notion that disturbs you very 
the pea-green pantaloons, utterly breaks much, is your positive dislike of long ser- 
down your hopes. mons, and of such singing as they have 

Yet you muse again, — there are plenty when the organist is away. You cannot 
of good people, as the times go, who have get the force of that verse of Dr. Watts 
their dislikes, and who speak them too. which likens heaven to a never-ending Sab- 
Even the sharp-talking clergyman you have bath ; you do hope — though it seems a half 

heard say some very sour things about his wicked hope — that old Dr. will not 

landlord, who raised his rent the last year, be the preacher. You think that your heart 

And you know that he did not talk as in its best moments craves for something 

mildly as he does in the church, when he more lovable. You suggest this perhaps to 

found Frank and yourself quietly filching some Sunday teacher, who only shakes his 

a few of his peaches through the orchard head sourly, and tells you it is a thought 

fence. that the Devil is putting in your brain. It 

But your clergyman will say perhaps, strikes you oddly that the Devil should be 
with what seems to you quite unnecessary using a verse of Dr. Watts to puzzle you ! 
coldness, that goodness is not to be reckoned But if it be so, he keeps it sticking by your 
in your chances of safety ; that there is a thought very pertinaciously, until some 
Higher Goodness, whose merit is All- simple utterance of your mother about the 
Sufficient. This puzzles you sadly ; nor Love that reigns in the other world seems 
will you escape the puzzle, until, in the on a sudden to widen Heaven, and to waft 
presence of the Home altar, which seems away your doubts like a cloud, 
to guard you, as the Lares guarded Roman It exeites your wonder not a little to find 
children, you feel — you cannot tell how — people, who talk gravely and heartily 
that good actions must spring from good of the excellence of sermons and of church- 
sources ; and that those sources must lie in going, sometimes fall asleep under it all. 
that Heaven toward which your boyish And you wonder — if they really like preach- 
spirit yearns, as you kneel at your mother's ing so well — why they do not buy some 
side. of the minister's old manuscripts, and read 

Conscience too is all the while approving them over on week-days, or invite the 

you for deeds well done ; and — wicked as clergyman to preach to them in a quiet way 

you fear the preacher might judge it — you in private. 

cannot but found on those deeds a hope that Ah, Clarence, you do not yet know 

your prayer at night flows more easily, the poor weakness of even maturest man- 
more freely, and more holily toward " Our hood, and the feeble gropings of the soul 
Father in Heaven." Nor indeed later in toward a soul's paradise in the best of the 

48 



BOY RELIGION. 



world ! You do not yet know either, that 
ignorance and fear will be thrusting their 
untruth and false show into the very essen- 
tials of Religion. 

Again you wonder, if the clergymen are 
all such very good men as you are taught 
to believe, why it is that every little while 
people will be trying to send them off, and 
very anxious to prove that, instead of being 
so good, they are in fact very stupid and 
bad men. At that day you have no clear 
conceptions of the distinction between stu- 
pidity and vice, and think that a good man 
must necessarily say very eloquent things. 
You will find yourself sadly mistaken on 
this point, before you get on very far in 
life. 

Heaven, when your mother peoples it 
with friends gone, and little Charlie, and 
that better Friend who, she says, took 
Charlie in his arms, and is now his Father 
above the skies, seems a place to be loved 
and longed for. But to think that Mr. 
Such-an-one, who is only good on Sundays, 
will be there too, — and to think of his 
talking as he does of a place which you are 
sure he would spoil if he were there, — 
puzzles you again ; and you relapse into 
wonder, doubt, and yearning. 

And there, Clarence, for the pres- 
ent, I shall leave you. A wide, rich heaven 
hangs above you, but it hangs very high. 
A wide, rough world is around you, and it 
lies very low ! 

I am assuming in these sketches no office 
of a teacher. I am seeking only to make 
a truthful analysis of the boyish thought 
and feeling. But having ventured thus far 
into what may seem sacred ground, I shall 
venture still farther, and clinch my matter 
with a moral. 

There is very much religious teaching, 
even in so good a country as New England, 
which is far too harsh, too dry, too cold for 
the heart of a boy. Long sermons, doc- 



trinal precepts, and such tediously-worded 
dogmas as were uttered by those honest 
but hard-spoken men, the Westminster 
Divines, fatigue, and puzzle, and dispirit 
him. 

They may be well enough for those 
souls which strengthen by task-work, or for 
those mature people whose iron habit of 
self-denial has made patience a cardinal 
virtue ; but they fall (experto crede) upon 
the unfledged faculties of the boy like a 
winter's rain upon spring flowers, — like 
hammers of iron upon lithe timber. They 
may make deep impression upon his moral 
nature, but there is great danger of a sad 
rebound. 

Is it absurd to suppose that some adapta- 
tion is desirable? And might not the 
teachings of that Religion, which is the 
aegis of our moral being, be inwrought with 
some of those finer harmonies of speech and 
form which were given to wise ends, — and 
lure the boyish soul by something akin to 
that gentleness which belonged to the Naza- 
rene Teacher, and which provided not only 
meat for men, " but milk for babes " ? 

Donald G. Mitchell. 



THE DEAD BOY. 

E crossed the sill ; she pointed to the bed >' 
There lay her boy, his innocent curly 
head 

Nestled upon the pillow, and his face 
Lit with the solemn and unearthly grace 
That crowns but once the children of our race ; 
God gives it when he takes them — he was 
dead! 
A broken toy, a bunch of withered flowers, 
In his thin hands were clasped, his breast 
above 
The last frail ties that to this world of ours 
Had linked the sufferers — save a mother's love. 
W~m. Allen Butler. 




49 



Tlxe Bsblo37" I Love. 




HIS is the baby I love 

The baby that can not talk ; 
The baby that can not walk 
The baby that just begins to creep ; 
The baby that's cuddled and 
rock'd to sleep ; 
Oh, this is the baby I love ! 



This is the baby I love ! 

The baby that's never cross ; 

The baby that papa can toss ; 
The baby that crows when held aloft ; 
The baby that's rosy and round and soft; 

Oh, this is the baby I love! 

This is the baby I love ! 

The baby that laughs when I peep 

To see is it still asleep ; 
The baby that coos and frowns and blinks 
When left alone — as it sometimes thinks ; 

Oh, this is the baby I lore ! 

This is the baby I love ! 

The baby that lies on my knee, 

And dimples and smiles on me 
While I strip it and bathe it and kiss it — Oh ! 
Till with bathing and kissing 'tis all aglow ; 

Yes, this is the baby I love ! 

This is the baby I love ! 

The baby all freshly dressed ; 

That, waking, is never at rest ; 
That plucks at my collar and pulls my hair 
Till I look like a witch — but I do not care ; 

Oh, this is the baby I love I 

This is the baby I love ! 

The baby that understands 

And dances with feet and hands, 
And a sweet, little, whinnying, eager cry, 
For the nice warm breakfast that waits it close 
by; 

Oh, this is the baby I love ! 



This is the baby I love! 

The baby that tries to talk ; 

The baby that longs to walk ; 
And oh, its mamma will wake some day 
To find that her baby has — run aicay ! 

My baby ! — the baby I love ! 

Habeiet M. Kimball. 



THE ANGEL'S WHISPER. 

A superstition of great beauty prevails in Ireland, 
that, when a child smiles in Its sleep, it is " talking 
with angels." 

A baby was sleeping ; 

It's mother was weeping ; 
For her husband was far on the wild raging sea ; 

And the tempest was swelling 

Round the fisherman's dwelling; 
And she cried, " Dermot, darling, oh, come back 
to me!'' 

Her beads while she number'd, 

The baby still slumber'd, 
And smiled in her face as she bended her knee : 

"Oh, blest be that warning, 

My child, thy sleep adorning, 
For I know that the angels are whispering with 
thee! 

" And while they are keeping 

Bright watch o'er thy sleeping, 
Oh, pray to them softly my baby with me ! 

And say thou wouldst rather 

They'd watch o'er thy father ! 
For I know that the angels are whispering to 
thee." 

The dawn of the morning 

Saw Dermot returning, 
And the wife wept with joy her babe's father to 
see, 

And closely caressing 

Her child with a blessing, 
Said, " I knew that the angels were whispering 

to thee." 

Samuel Lovee. 



50 




-» " »v 







BABY'S TOES. 

H, the tiny, curled-up treasure, 
Just as cute as cute can be ! 
Come and help rne count them, Madgie, 
While the baby bends to see ; 



Peeps demurely over dainty 

Skirts, drawn up to dimpled knees. 

Hey, my lady Lily ! whose two 
Roly-poly feet are these ? 

See the darling's round-eyed wonder — 
Does she really know they're hers ? 

Now she reaches down to feel them, 
While new triumph in her stirs. 

Crow your fill, my little lady ! 

Those are your own cunning toes, 
Round, and soft, and fat, and funny, 

And — how many? Madgie knows ! 

Call them lily-buds to please her? 

Madgie says they are too pink, 
Say ten roses and two posies ! 

Rather rose-buds, don't you think ? 

Come, wee toes, lie still ; be covered ; 

You've cut capers quite enough : 
If you don't, we'll kiss and put you 

Each one in a paper puff. 



w 



HERE did you come from, baby dear? 
Out of the everywhere into here. 

Where did you get those eyes so blue? 
Out of the sky as I came through. 

What makes the light in them sparkle and 

spin ? 
Some of the starry spikes left in. 

Where did you get that little tear? 
I found it waiting when I got here. 

What makes your forehead so smooth and 

high? 
A soft hand stroked it as I went by. 

What makes your cheek like a Avarm white 

rose? 
I saw something better than any one knows. 

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss ? 
Three angels gave me at, once a kiss. 

Where did you get this pearly ear ? 
God spoke and it came out to hear. 

Where did you get those arms and hands ? 
Love made itself into bonds and bands. 

Feet, whence did you come, you darling 

things ? 
From the same box as the cherub's wings. 

How did they all just come to be you ? 
God thought about me, and so I grew. 

But how did you come to us, you dear ? 
God thought about you, and so I am here. 

George Macdoxald. 



Except ye be converted, and become as 
little children, ye shall not enter into the 
kingdom of heaven. 



Jesus Christ. 



51 




HE bonnie, bonnie bairn, who sits poking in the ash, 
Glowering in the fire with his wee round face; 
Laughing at the fuffin' lowe, what sees he there? 
Ha ! the young dreamer's bigging castles in the air. 
His wee chubby face and his touzie curly pow, 
Are laughing and nodding to the dancing lowe; 
He'll brown his rosy cheeks, and singe his sunny hair, 
Glowering at the imps wi' their castles in the air. 



He sees muckle castles towering to the moon ! 

He sees little sogers pu'ing them a' doun ! 
Worlds whombling up and down, bleezing wi' a flare, 
See how he loups ! as they glimmer in the air. 
For a' sae sage he looks, what can the laddie ken ? 
He's thinking upon naething, like mony mighty men, 
A wee thing maks us think, a sma' thing maks us stare, 
There are mair folk than him bigging castles in the air. 



Sic a night in winter may weel mak him cauld : 

His chin upon his bufly hand will soon mak him auld ; 

His brow is brent sae braid, oh, pray that daddy Care 

Would let the wean alane wi' his castles in the air. 

He'll glower at the fire ! and he'll keek at the light ! 

But mony sparkling stars are swallow'd up by night; 

Aulder een than his are glamour'd by a glare, 

Hearts are broken, heads are turn'd, wi' castles in the air. 

James Ballantyne. 



JV/t UTTERING, the winds at eve, with blunted point, 

iVi Blow hollow-blustering from the south. Subdued, 

The frost resolves into a trickling thaw. 

Spotted, the mountains* shine ; loose sleet descends, 

And floods the country round. The rivers swell, 

Of bonds impatient. Sudden from the hills, 

O'er rocks and woods, in broad brown cataracts, 

A thousand snow-fed torrents shoot at once ; 

And where they rush, the wide resounding plain 

Is left one slimy waste. 

52 



Thomson 



<xxxxxxx^<xxx>o<xx><><>< 



I Our First-Born, f 

<><><><<><><>^<><>^<><><><k><><><><><^^ 




HAPPY husband ! happy wife ! 
The rarest blessing Heaven drops 

down, 
The sweetest blossom in Spring's 
crown, 
Starts in the furrows of your life ! 

God! what a towering height ye 



Who cry, " Lo, my beloved child !" 
And, life on life sublimely piled, 
Ye touch the heavens and peep within ! 

Look how a star of glory swims 
Down aching silences of space, 
Flushing the darkness till its face 

With beating heart of light o'erbrims ! 

So brightening came Babe Christabel, 
To touch the earth with fresh romance, 
And light a mother's countenance 

With looking on her miracle. 

With hands so fiower-like, soft, and fair, 
She caught at life, with words as sweet 
As first spring violets, and feet 

As faery-light as feet of air. 

The father, down in Toil's murk mine, 
Turns to his wealthy world above, 
Its radiance, and its home of love ; 

And lights his life like sun-struck wine. 

The mother moves with queenlier tread; 
Proud swell the globe? of ripe delight 
Above her heart, so warm and white, 

A pillow for the baby -head ! 

Their natures deepen, well-like, clear, 

Till God's eternal stars are seen, 

For ever shining and serene, 
By eyes anointed Beauty's seer. 

A sense of glory all things took, — 

The red rose-heart of Dawn would blow, 
And Sundown's sumptuous pictures show 

Babe-cherubs wearing their babe's look ! 

And round their peerless one they clung, 
Like bees about a flower's wine-cup ; 
New thoughts and feelings blossom'd up, 

And hearts for very fulness sung 

Of what their budding babe shall grow, 
When the maid crimsons into wife, 
And crowns the summit of some life, 

Like Phosphor, with morn on its brow ! 



And they should bless her for a bride. 

Who, like a splendid saint alit 

In some heart's seventh heaven, should sit, 
As now in theirs, all glorified ! 

But ! 'twas all too white a brow 
To flush with passion that doth fire 
With Hymen's torch its own death-pyre, — 

So pure her heart was beating now ! 

And thus they built their castles brave 
In faery lands of gorgeous cloud ; 
They never saw a little white shroud, 

Nor guess'd how flowers may mask the grave. 

Gerald Masset. 



►OTHER'S baby, rock and rest, 
Little birds are fast asleep. 
Close beneath her mother-breast, 
Safe the bird her brood will keep. 
Oh ! my nestling, mother sings, 
Close within the mother-arms, 
Fold thy little, unfledged wings, 
Safe from any rude alarms. 

Sweet, my baby, on my breast. 
Dream your happy dreams and rest. 
Rest, oh! resf. 

Ah! my baby, from the nest 

Little birds will some day fly 
To the east and to the west, 

Wild their pretty wings to try. 
But, fly they fast, my bird, or far, 

Never can they find the spot, 
Under sun or any star, 
Where the mother-love is not. 

Sweet, my baby, on my breast 
Dream your happy dreams and rest. 
Rest, oh ! rest. 

Oh ! my baby, mother prays, 

As she clasps you closer still, 
All sweet things for coming days, 

And not any earthly ill. 
Always, child, remember this ; 

Mother's heart is warm and true, 
And she tells you, with a kiss, 
There'll be always room for yon. 
Sweet, my baby, on my breast, 
Dream your happy dreams and rest. 
Rest, oh ! rest. 

Eben E. Rexford. 



53 



little Ward's Secret 




larks sing out to the 
thrushes, 
And thrushes sing to the 
sky; 
Sing from your nest in the 
bushes, 
And sing wherever you fly ; 
For I'm sure that never an- 
other 
Such secret was told unto you — 
I've just got a baby brother ! 

And I wish that the whole world knew. 

I have told the buttercups, truly, 

And the clover that grows by the way; 
And it pleases me each time, newly, 

When I think of it during the day. 
And I said to myself: " Little Mary, 

You ought to be good as you can, 
For the sake of the beautiful fairy 

That brought you the wee little man." 

I'm five years old in the summer, 

And I'm getting quite large and tall ; 
But I thought till I saw the new-comer, 

When I looked in the glass, I was small. 
And I rise iu the morning quite early, 

To be sure that the baby is here, 
For his hair is so soft and curly, 

And his hands so tiny and dear! 

I stop in the midst of my pleasure — 

I'm so happy I can not play — 
And keep peeping in at my treasure, 

To see how much he gains in a day. 
But he doesn't look much like growing, 

Yet I think that he will in a year, 
And I wish that the days would be going, 

And the time when he walks would be here ! 

Oh, larks ! sing out to the thrushes, 

And thrushes, sing as you soar ; 
For I think, when another spring blushes, 

I can tell you a great deal more : 



I shall look from one to the other, 

And say: " Guess who I'm bringing to you?" 
And you'll look — and see — he's my brother! 

And you'll sing, " Little Mary was true." 

Mrs. L. C. Whiton. 



MOTHER GOOSE. 

i jnELL me a story, mamma, 
J One that is not very long, 
I am getting so tired and sleepy, 
Or sing me a little song — 
Something about the boy in blue 

That watched the cows and sheep, 
Who ought to get up and blow the horn, 
But he lies in the hay asleep." 

And I answered with quick impatience, 

While he hung his sleepy head, 
" No, not a story or song to-night, 

Bertie must go to bed." 
But after the room was silent, 

And the weary boy asleep, 
And never a sound came on my ears 

Save the lonely cricket's peep. 

The voice with the tone of pleading 

Kept coming again and again, 
" Tell me a story or sing me a song," 

Till I could not bear the pain ; 
So I went with stealthy footstep 

To see how my darling slept ; 
Weak and foolish though it may seem, 

I knelt by the bed and wept, 

To think that I had refused him 

The song that he loved so well, 
And refused the simple story 

That none but a mother could tell, 
And I said, " Sleep on, sweet dreamer; 

Fear not the cows and the sheep ; 
Dream that you lie in the meadow, 

Under the hay asleep. 
All too soon you will waken. 

To watch o'er the field of corn ; 
All too soon will the sheep get in, 

Though you bravely blow your horn." 

Mrs. D. M. Jordan. 



54 




A- SPRING SNOW STORM. 



BY MARY A. LATHBURY 



~*~ 



S|ppHERE'S a flutter of wings in the cherry They toss the blossomy boughs in air; 
gg trees, 

And a merrier sound than the hum 
of bees — 
The winds are awake — the winds of May — 
And this is the hour and this is the way 
The four winds play : 



They sift the snow of the petals fair 
Into the sunshine ; and then away 
On the topmost branches they perch and say. 
" Isn't this gay ? " 



55 



{) THE rOP.M KAT 








* * * * * "A leaf 
Fresh flung upon a river that will dance 
Upon the wave that stealeth out its life, 
Then sink of its own heaviness." 

Philip Slingsby. 



WHERE'S something in a noble boy, 
m A brave, free-hearted, careless one, 
With bis uncheck'd, unbidden joy, 

His dread of books and love of fun, 
And in his clear and ready smile, 
Unshaded by a thought of guile, 

And unrepress'd by sadness — 
Which brings me to my childhood back, 
As if I trod its very track, 

And felt its very gladness. 
And yet it is not in his play, 

When every trace of thought is lost, 
And not when you would call him gay, 

That his bright presence thrills me most. 

His shout may ring upon the hill, 
His voice be echoed in the hall, 

His merry laugh like music trill, 
And I unheeding hear it all- 
Tor, like the wrinkles on my brow, 

I scarcely notice such things now — 
But when, amid the earnest game, 

He stops, as if he music beard, 
And, heedless of his shouted name 

As of the carol of a bird, 
Stands gazing on the empty air 
As if some dream were passing there — 

'Tis then that on his face I look, 
His beautiful but thoughtful face, 

And, like a long-forgotten book, 
Its sweet, familiar meaning trace — - 

Remembering a thousand things 

Which pass'd me on those golden wings, 
Which time has fetter'd now — 

Things that came o'er me with a thrill, 

And left me silent, sad, and still, 
And threw upon my brow 

A holier and a gentler cast, 

That was too innocent to last. 



'Tis strange how thought upon a child 

Will, like a presence, sometimes press — 
And when his pulse is beating wild, 

And life itself is in excess — 
When foot and hand, and ear and eye, 
Are all with ardor straining high — 

How in his heart will spring 
A feeling, whose mysterious thrall 
Is stronger, sweeter far than all ; 

And, on its silent wing, 
How with the clouds he'll float away, 
As wandering and as lost as they! 

N. P. Willis. 



A WEE SANG ON A WEE SUBJECT. 

iH, my bonnie Mary, 
Winsome little fairy, 
Ever licht and airy — 

Singin' a' the day ; 
Lauchin' aye sae sweetly, 
Actin' sae discreetly, 
Winnin' hearts completely, 
Witchin' Mary May. 

Cheekies red as roses, 
Lippies sweet as posies, 
Ilka charm discloses, 

Quite a lurin' fay ; 
Eenie ever glancin', 
Leggies ever dancin', 
Life an' love enchantin' — 

Bonnie Mary May. 

Hoo I lo'e thee, Mary ! 
Witchin' little fairy, 
A palace were a prairie, 

Wantin' sic a stay; 
Sic gladness floats aboot thee, 
Princes wadna flout thee, 
Life were cauld without thee, 

Little Mary May. 



56 




mm 



im 



HEN the lessons and tasks 
are all ended, 
And the school for the day 
is dismissed, 
And the little ones gather 
around me, 
To bid me good-night and 
be kissed ; 
Oh, the little white arms that 
encircle 
My neck in a tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 
Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood too lovely to last ; 
Of love that my heart will remember, 

When it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin ; 
When the glory of God was about me, 

And the glory of gladness within. 

Oh ! my heart grows weak as a woman's, 

And the fountain of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the mountains of sins hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempest of fate blowing wild ! 
Oh ! there is nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart; of a child. 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of God in disguise ; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses, 

His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
Oh ! these truants from home and from heaven, 

They have made me more manly and mild, 
And I know how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun ; 
I would pray God to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would come back to myself; 
Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner, 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so eagerly bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 

I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 
They have taught me the goodness of God ; 



My heart is a dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them from breaking a rule 

My frown is sufficient correction ; 
My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 

To traverse its threshold no more ; 
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones, 

That meet me each morn at the door, 
T shall miss the "good-nights" and the kisses, 

And the gush of their innocent glee, 
The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning to me. 

I shall miss them at morn and evening, 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tramp of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons and the tasks are all ended, 
And death says : " The school is dismissed," 
May the little ones gather around me, 
To bid me good-night and be kissed. 

Charles M. Dickinson. 

-»3kh1H=S«- 

THE LITTLE GIRL'S WONDER. 
'HAT do the birds say, I wonder, I 
wonder, 
With their chitter and chatter? It 
isn't all play, 
Do they scold, do they fret at some boggle or 
blunder, 
As we fret, as we scold day after day ? 

Do their hearts ever ache, I wonder, I wonder, 
At anything else than the danger that comes 

When some enemy threatens them over or under 
The great, leafy boughs of their great leafy 
homes? 

Do they vow to be friends, I winder, I wonder, 
With promises fair and promises sweet, 

Then, quick as a wink, at a word fall asunder, 
As human friends do, in a moment of heat. 

But day after day I may wonder and wonder, 
And ask them no end of such questions as these — 

With chitter and chatter, now over, now under, 
The big, leafy boughs of the big, leafy trees 

They dart and they skim, with their bills full of 
plunder, 

But never a word of an answer they give, 
And never a word shall I get, though I wonder 

From morning till night, as long as I live. 




HgW^:^ 




E measured the riot- 
ous baby 
Against the cottage 

wall — 
A lily grew on the 

threshold, 
And the boy was 

just as tall ; 
A royal tiger-lily, 
With spots of j>ur- 

ple and gold, 
And a heart like a 

jeweled chalice, 
The fragrant dew 

to hold. 



Without, the bluebirds whistled 

High up in the old roof-trees, 
And to and fro at the window 

The red rose rocked her bees ; 
And the wee pink fists of the baby 

Were never a moment still, 
Snatching at shine and shadow 

That danced on the lattice-sill. 

His eyes were wide as bluebells — 

His mouth like a flower unblown — 
Two little bare feet, like funny white mice, 

Peeped out from his snowy gown ; 
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture 

That yet had a touch of pain, 
When June rolls around with her roses, 

We'll measure the boy again. 

Ah me ! in a darkened chamber, 

With the sunshine shut away, 
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 

We measured the boy to-day ; 
And the little bare feet, that were dimpled 

And sweet as a budding rose, 
Lay side by side together, 

In the hush of a long repose] 

Up from the dainty pillow, 

White as the risen dawn, 
The fair little face lay smiling, 

With the light of heaven thereon ; 
And the dear little hands, like rose-leaves 

Dropped from a rose, lay still, 
Never to snatch at the sunshine 

That crept to the shrouded sill ! 



We measured the sleeping baby 

With ribbons white as snow, 
For the shining rosewood casket 

That waited him below ; 
And out of the darkened chamber 

We went with a childless moan — 
To the height of the sinless angels 

Our little one had grown. 



Emma Alice Browx 



-&■■&-- 



THE PLAY-HOUSE. 

TfTjfNDEB a fir in the garden ground 
]|_J| A strange habitation to-day I found, 

Built of bushes, and bark, and boards, 
And holding hidden the queerest hoards. 

There were bits of crockery, sticks, and stones, 
Shreds of pink calico, strings of cones, 
Crumbs of candle, a picture-book, 
And, strangest of all, in a cosy nook 
Was an idol made in the image of man, 
With charcoal eyes, and stuffed with bran. 

" Were they heathens who dwelt there ?" Oh, no, 

indeed, 
"Were they animals?" Yes, of the kind that 

can read, 
And laugh and cry, or be wicked and pray, 
And when they are old their hair grows gray. 

Their names are Margery, Ned, and Sue ; 
Their curls are brown, and their eyes are blue ; 
And they builded there in the summer heat, 
As glad as the birds, and sang as sweet. 

The birds that built in the tree-tops high 
Are singing under a summer sky ; 
But the dear little builders who toiled below 
Are singing here in the firelight glow. 



THE BOY'S APPEAL 

Oh, why must my face be washed so clean, 
And rubbed and scrubbed for Sunday ? 

When you very well know, as you often have seen, 
'Twill be dirty again on Monday. 

You rub as hard as ever you can, 
And your hands are rough, to my sorrow ; 

No woman shall wash me when I'm a man ; 
And I wish I was one to-morrow ! 



L)iiJXLiij x iiiili DuX!d I oiJuli * 







N a little brown house 
With scarce room for a 

mouse, 
Came with morniug's first 

ray, 
One remarkable day, 
(Though who told her the 

way 
I am sure I can't say) 
A young lady so wee 
That you scarcely could 
see 

Her small speck of a nose ; 
And, to speak of her toes, — 
Though it seems hardly fair, 
Since they surely were there, 
Keep them covered we must ; 
You must take them on trust. 

Now this little brown house, 
With scarce room for a mouse, 
Was quite full of small boys, 
With their books and their toys, 
Their wild bustle and noise. 

" My dear lads," quoth papa, 
" We've too many by far ; 
Tell us, what can we do 
With this damsel so new? 
We've no room for her here, 
So to me 'tis quite clear, 
Though it gives me great pain, 
I must hang- her again 
On the tree whence she came, 
(Do not cry, there's no blame) 
With her white blanket round her, 
Just as Nurse Eussell found her." 

Said stout little Ned, 
" I'll stay all day in bed, 
Squeezed up nice and small, 
Veiy close to the wall." 
Then spoke Tommy, " I'll go 
To the cellar below ; 



I'll just travel about, 
But not try to get out ; 
Till you're all fast asleep ; 
And so quiet I'll be 
You'll not dream it is me." 
Then flaxen-haired Will, 
" I'll be dreadfully still ; 
On the back stairs I'll stay, 
Way off, out of the way." 

Quoth the father, " Well done 
My brave darlings, come on ! 
Here's a shoulder for Will, 
Pray sit still, sir, sit still ! 
Valiant Thomas, for thee, 
A good seat on my knee, 
And Edward, thy brother, 
Can perch on the other ; 
Baby John, take my back ; 
Now, who says we can't pack ? 

" So love gives us room, 
And our birdie shall stay. 

We'll keep her, my boys, 
Till God takes her away." 



THE CHILDREN. 

H ! what would the world be to us 
If the children were no more ? 
We should dread the desert behind us 
Worse than the dark before. 

What the leaves are to the forest, 

With light and air for food, 
Ere their sweet and tender juices 

Have been hardened into wood — 

That, to the world, are children ; 

Through them it feels the glow 
Of a brighter and sunnier climate 

Than rpaohes the trunk below. 

H. W. LOXGFELLOW. 



59 



-»■§£ GOOD-WIGHT AND GOOH-MOMNIWG. fe§h«- 




FAIR little girl 

Sat under a tree, 
Sewing as long as 

Her eyes could see; 
She smoothed her work, 

And folded it right, 
And said, " Dear work, 

Good-night, good- 
night." 



Such a number of rooks 

Went over her head, 
Crying, " Caw, caw," 

On their way to bed. 
She said, as she watched 

Their curious flight, 
"Little black things, 

Good-night, good-night." 

The horses neighed, 

And the oxen lowed, 
And the sheep's "bleat, bleat,' 

Came over the road ; 
All seeming to say, 

With a quiet delight, 
" Good little girl, 

Good-night, good-night." 

She did not say 

To the sun, "Good-night," 
Though she saw him there, 

Like a ball of light; 
For she knew he had 

God's time to keep 
All over the world, 

And never could sleep. 

The tall, pink fox-glove 

Bowed his head ; 
The violets curtsied 

And went to bed ; 



And good little Lucy 

Tied up her hair, 
And said, on her knees, 

Her favorite prayer. 

And when on her pillow, 

She softly lay, 
She heard nothing more 

Till again it was day. 
And all things said 

To the beautiful sun, 
" Good-morning, good-morning, 



Our work has begun. 



LOED HOTJGHIOU. 



-js38~B*=±- 



A HINT. 

J\,UR Daisy lay down 

In her little night gown, 
And kissed me again and again, 
On forehead and cheek, 
On lips that woidd speak, 
But found themselves shut, to their gain. 

Then, foolish, absurd, 

To utter a word, 
I asked her the question so old 

That wife and that lover 

Ask over and over, 
As if they were surer when told ! 

There, close at her side, 

" Do you love me ?" I cried ; 
She lifted her golden-crowned head ; 

A puzzled surprise 

Shone in her gray eyes — 
" Why, that's why I kiss you !" she said. 
Auna C. Beaoeett. 



60 



^iN' BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN- 





LESSIXGS on the blessed children, sweetest gifts of Heaven to earth, 
Filling all the heart with gladness, filling all the house with mirth ; 
Bringing with them native sweetness, pictures of the primal bloom 

Which the bliss forever gladdens, of the regions whence they come ; 

Bringing with them joyous impulse of a state withouten care, 

And a buoyant faith in being, which makes all in nature fair ; 
iSbt a doubt to dim the distance, not a grief to vex the nigh, 

And a hope that in existence finds each hour a luxury ; 
Going singing, bounding, brightening — never fearing as they go, 
That the innocent shall tremble, and the loving find a foe ; 
In the daylight, in the starlight, still with thought that freely flies, 
Prompt and joyous, with no question of the beauty in the skies ; 
Genial fancies winning raptures, as the bee still sucks her store, 
All the present still a garden glean'd a thousand times before ; 
All the future but a region where the happy serving thought, 
Still depicts a thousand blessings, by the winged hunter caught ; 
Life a chase where blushing pleasures only seem to strive in flight, 
Lingering to be caught, and yielding gladly to the proud delight ; 
As the maiden, through the alleys, looking backward as she flies, 
Woos the fond pursuer onward, with the love-light in her eyes. 

Oh ! the happy life in children, still restoring joy to ours, 
Making for the forest music, planting for the wayside flowers ; 
Back recalling all the sweetness, in a pleasure pure as rare, 
Back the past of hope and rapture bringing to the heart of care. 
How, as swell the happy voices, bursting through the shady grove, 
Memories take the place of sorrows, time restores the sway to love ! 
We are in the shouting comrades, shaking off the load of years, 
Thought forgetting, strifes and trials, doubts, and agonies, and tears ; 
We are in the bounding urchin, as o'er hill and plain he darts, 
Share the struggle and the triumph, gladdening in his heart of hearts; 
What an image of the vigor and the glorious grace we knew, 
When .to eager youth from boyhood at a single bound we grew ! 
Even such our slender beauty, such upon our cheek the glow, 
In our eyes the life of gladness — of our blood the overflow, 
Bless the mother of the urchin ! in his form we see her truth : 
He is now the very picture of the memories in our youth ; 
Xever can we doubt the forehead, nor the sunny flowing hair, 
Xor the smiling in the dimple speaking chin and cheek so fair ; 
Bless the mother of the young one ; he hath blended in his grace, 
All the hope, and joy, and beauty, kindling once in either face ! 

Oh ! the happy faith of children, that is glad in all it sees, 
And with never need of thinking, pierces still its mysteries ! 

61 



BLESSINGS ON CHILDREN 



In simplicity profoundest, in their soul abundance bless'd, 

Wise in value of the sportive, and in restlessness at rest ; 

Lacking every creed, yet having faith so large in all they see, 

That to know is still to gladden, and 'tis rapture but to be. 

What trim fancies bring them flowers ; what rare spirits walk their wood, 

What a wondrous world the moonlight harbors of the gay and good ! 

Unto them the very tempest walks in glories grateful still, 

And the lightning gleams, a seraph, to persuade them to the hill : 

'Tis a sweet and loving spirit, that throughout the midnight rains, 

Broods beside the shutter'd windows, and with gentle love complains ; 

And how wooing, how exalting, with the richness of her dyes, 

Spans the painter of the rainbow, her bright arch along the skies, 

With a dream like Jacob's ladder, showing to the fancy's sight, 

How 'twere easy for the sad one to escape to worlds of light ! 

Ah ! the wisdom of such fancies, and the truth in every dream, 

That to faith confiding offers, cheering every gloom, a gleam ! 

Happy hearts, still cherish fondly each delusion of your youth, 

Joy is born of well believing, and the fiction wraps the truth. 



-- C§o£=- 



W. G. SIMMS. 



GOING UP. 

-i P and up the baby goes, 

[j j Up to papa's shoulder. 

Now she clings to papa's nose — 
Now, becoming bolder, 
How she flings her arms and crows ! 
Do you think the darling knows 
How strong the arms that hold her? 

Up and up the baby goes, 

Taller, wiser, older ; 
As the calyx holds the rose, 

Childish years enfold her ; 
By and by they shall enclose 
From the woman and the rose ; 

Then, O Father, hold her ! 

On the heights of womanhood, 
Hold her, Heavenly Father ; 

Lest, forgetting what is good, 
She be carried rather 

Down with folly's multitude 

Into error's mazy wood 
Where the shadows gather. 

Up and up the baby goes ; 

Heavenly Father, give her 
Heart to feel for others' woes, 

Hands of helping ever ; 
Let her bloom, when life shall close, 
Like a white immortal rose 

By the crystal river. 



ON THE DEATH OF AN INFANT. 

HOST of angels flying, 

Through cloudless skies impelled, 

Upon the earth beheld 
A pearl of beauty lying, 

Worthy to glitter bright 

In heaven's vast hall of light, 

They saw with glances tender, 

An infant newly born, 

O'er whom life's earliest morn 
Just cast its opening splendor ; 

Virtue it could not know, 

Nor vice, nor joy, nor woe. 

The blest angel-ic legion 

Greeted its birth above, 

And came, with looks of love, 
From heaven's enchanting region ; 

Bending their winged way 

To where the infant lay. 

They spread their pinions o'er it, — 

That little pearl which shone 

With lustre all its own, — 
And then on high they bore it, 

Where glory has its birth ; — 

But left the shell on earth. 

Dirk Smits (Dutch.) 

Translation of H. S. Van Dyk. 



62 



iHE reason I call it " Baby's Day " 
Is funny enough to tell ; 
The first thing she did was give " syrup of 
squills " 
To dolly to make her well ; 
And then when I told her how wrong it was, 

She said, with a quivering sigh, 
" I'm sorry I made her so sticky, mamma, 
But I couldn't let dolly die." 

Then comforted wholly she went awav, 

And was just as still as a mouse, 
And I thought to be sure I should find her at 
once 

In the nursery playing ''house;" 
But, lo ! on the way as I started to look, 

A queer little piece I found, 
Just like a centre of snowy lawn 

That the scissors had scalloped round, 

I cried. " O, baby ! what have you done ? 

You have been to somebody's drawer, 
And taken from out of the handkerchief pile 

The most beautiful one that you saw !" 
And then the dear little head went down 

Pathetic as it could be, 
While she sobbed, "There was nothing for me to 
cut, 

And I thought I'd take two or three !" 

It was only a little later on, 

That the water began to splash, 
And I jumped and found she was rubbing away 

On her sister's holiday sash ; 
But, catching a look of utter dismay, 

As she lifted her innocent eyes, 
She whispered : " Don't worry, I'll wash it all 
dean, 

And hang it up till it dries." 

But the funny mishaps of that wonderful day 

I could not begin to relate ; 
The boxes of buttons and pins she spilled, 

Like a cherub pursued by fate ! 
And still, all the while, the dear little dove 

Was fluttering 'round her nest, 
And the only thing I really could do 

Was to smooth out her wings on my breast. 

But the day drifted on till it came to an end, 

And the great moon rose in sight. 
And the dear soft lids o'er the dear soft eyes 

Dropped tenderly their good-night. 



And I thought, as I looked on her lying asleep, 

I was glad (for once in a way), 
That my beautiful child was human enough 

For a mischievous " Baby Day." 

Mrs. L. C. Whiton. 



MAMMA'S STORY. 

' ' nr^ELL us a story, mamma dear," 
j The children cried one day. 

" The rain falls fast. It is going to last, 
And we are all tired of play." 

Ah ! pleading eyes and winning tones, 

How could they be denied? 
So mamma began in merry strain, 

And she laid her work aside : 

" There was an old woman that lived in a shoe. 
And of all the children that ever you knew, 
Hers was the wildest, funniest crew ; 
Do you wonder she didn't know what to do? 

"There were Ella, and Nell, and Mary Belle, 
Laurie, Laura, and Maud Estelle, 
Sarah, Sammy, and Josephine, 
Norah, Norval, and Madeline, 
Lilian, Archibald, and Harry, 
Christopher, Charlie, Pete, and Carrie, 
Jemmy, Johnny, and Theodore, 
And over a half a dozen more, 

" And then such a terrible time, 'twas said, 
She had in getting them all to bed. 
And supper, alas ! was such a dread, 
Especially when they cried for bread. 
One night she threatened to whip them all, 
And reached for the switch upon the wall. 

My ! how the madcap urchins flew 
In and out of the poor old shoe ; 
Over each other they madly dash, 
The old lady after them like a flash. 
Through a hole in the worn-out sole, 
Back and forth at each button-hole ; 
Out at the top and in at the toe, 
Around and under, away they go. 

" Finally, wearied out with fun, 
They drop in their places one by one, 
And not till her house was still as death, 
Does the old woman pause to recover breath." 

Julia M. Dana. 



63 



"THANKS TO YOU." 



<?<? 



TOM1 1 © ?M< 



"VERY day for a month of Sundays, 
Saturdays, Tuesdays, Fridays, Mondays, 
Jack had pondered the various means, 
And methods pertaining to grinding 
machines, 
Until he was sure he could build a wheel 
That, given the sort of dam that's proper, 
Would only need some corn in the hopper 
To turn out very respectable meal. 

Jerry, and Jane, and Joe, and the others, 
Jack's incredulous sisters and brothers, 
Gave him credit for good intentions, 
But took no stock in the boy's inventions. 
In fact, they laughed them quite to scorn ; 

Instead of wasting his time, they said. 

He would be more likely to earn his bread 
Planting potatoes or hoeing corn. 

Bessie alone, when all the rest 
Crushed his spirit with jibe and jest, 
Whispered softly, " Whatever they say, 
I know you will build the wheel some day !" 
Chirping crickets and singing birds 

Were not so sweet as her heartsome words ; 

Straight he answered, " If ever I do, 
I know it will only be thanks to you !" 

Many a time sore heart and brain 

Leap at a word, grown strong again, 

Thanks to her, as the story goes, 

Hope and courage in Jack arose ; 

Till one bright day in the meadow-brook 

There was heard a sound as of water plashing, 
And Bessie watched with her happy look 

The little wheel in the sunlight flashing. 

By and by, as the years were fraught 

With fruit of his earnest toil and thought, 

Brothers and sisters changed their tune — 

" Our Jack," they cried, " will be famous soon I" 

Which was nothing more than Bessie knew. 

She said, and had known it all the while! 

But Jack replied with a kiss and a smile, 
" If ever I am, it is thanks to you !" 

Mary E. Bradly. 



THE GOOD SHIP " NEVER-FAIL." 

"T A THY don't you launch your boat, my 

W boy? " 

j^JL I asked the other day, 

As strolling idly on the beach 
I saw my lads at play ; 
One blue-eyed rogue shook back his curls, 

And held his ship to me, 
•' I'm giving her a name," he cried, 

" Before she goes to sea ; 
We rigged her out so smart and taut, 

With flag and snow-white sail, 
And now I'll trust her to the waves, 

And call her ' Never-Fail.' " 

The little ship sailed proudly out, 

Through mimic rock and shoal, 
The child stood watching on the beach 

His vessel reach its goal ; 
The wind had risen soft at first, 

But wilder soon it blew, 
It strained and bent the slender mast, 

That still rose straight and true ; 
" Yet," cried the boy, " my ship is safe, 

In spite of wind and gale, 
Her sails are strong, her sides are firm, 

Her name is ' Never-Fail.' " 

And presently the wind was lulled, 

The little bark came home, 
No wreck, although her sails were wet, 

Her deck all washed with foam ; 
And loudly laughed my true boy then, 

As at his feet she lay, 
And wisely spoke my true boy then, 

Although 'twas said in play — 
" Papa, I thought if mast and sail 

And tackle all were true, 
With such a name as 'Never-Fail,' 

She'd sail the wide sea through." 



THEY PLANTED HER. 



O'er wayward Children wouldst thou hold firm 
rule, 
And sun thee in the light of happy faces ? 
Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy 
graces, 
And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 

S. T. Coleridge. 



Amy died — 
Dear little Amy ! when you talk of her, 
Say she is gone to heaven. 

Second Child. They planted her — 
Will she come up next year? 

First Child. No, not so soon ; 
But some day God will call her to come up, 
And then she will. Papa knows everything; 
He said she would before they planted her. 

Jean Ingelow. 
64 



^fgYE BALLAD OF CHROTMAJT pfe 




ING a song of Christmas ! 
Pockets full of gold ; 
Plum and cakes for Polly's 
stocking, 
More than it could hold. 
Pudding in the great pot, 

Turkey on the spit, 
Merry faces around the fire — 
Sorrow? not a bit! 

Sing a song of Christmas ! 

Carols in the street, 
Bundles going home with people, 

Everywhere we meet. 
Holly, fir, and spruce boughs 

Green upon the wall, 
Spotless snow along the road, 

More going to fall. 

Sing a song of Christmas ! 

Empty pockets here ; 
"Windows broken, garments thin, • 

Stove black and drear. 
Xoses blue and frosty, 

Fingers pinched and red, 
Little hungry children going 

Supperless to bed. 

Sino; a song of Christmas — 

Tears are falling fast; 
Empty is the baby's chair, 

Since 'twas Christmas last. 
AVrathfully the north wind 

"Wails across the snow, 
Is there not a little grave 

Frozen down below? 

Sing a song of Christmas! 

Thanks to God on high 
For the tender hearts abounding 

With His charity! 



Gifts for all the needy, 
For the sad hearts, love, 

And a little angel smiling 
In sweet heaven above ! 



-+*!- 



~%+- 




FANNY'S MUD PIES. 

NDER the apple-tree, spreading and 
thick, 
Happy with only a pan and a stick, 
On the soft grass in the meadow that lies, 
Our little Fanny is making mud pies. 

On her bright apron, and bright drooping head, 
Showers of pink and white blossoms are shed ; 
Tied to a branch, that seems just meant for that, 
Dances and flutters her little straw hat. 

Gravely she stirs, with a serious look, 
Making believe she's a true pastry cook ; 
Sundry brown splashes on forehead and eyes 
Show that our Fanny is making mud pies. 

But all the soil of her innocent play 
Clean soap and water will soon wash away; 
Many a pleasure in daintier guise 
Leaves darker traces than Fanny's mud pies. 

Dash, full of joy in the bright summer day, 
Zealously chases the robins away, 
Barks at the squirrels, or snaps at the flies, 
All the while Fanny is making mud pies. 

Sunshine and soft summer breezes astir, 
While she is busy, are busy with her, — 
Cheeks rosy glowing, and bright sparkling eyes, 
Bring they to Fanny while making mud pies. 

Dollies and playthings are all laid away, 
Not to come out till the next rainy day ; 
Under the blue of those sweet summer skies, 
Nothing so pleasant as making mud pies. 

Elizabeth Sill. 



-OH— 



In this dim world of clouding cares 
We rarely know till wildered eyes 
See white wings lessening up the skies 

The angels with us unawares ! 

Gerald Massey. 



65 



ii UNITS MD HER DOLLS. I 




AMILY laden, 

Wee, wise maiden — 
Knits her brow in dainty knots, 

How to dolly 

Cure of folly 
Occupies her busy thoughts. 




Cheeks so waxen, 

Tresses flaxen, 
Footsteps, that a fairy seems — 

All now wander 

Over yonder, 
In the happy land of dreams ! 



" Dollie's wet her 

Feet to get her 
Posies, in the morning dew ; 

Sure to be sick — 

Cold or colic — 
Like as not the measles, too. 

"There is Freddy, 

Always ready 
Into awful 'fairs to fall : 

Bad as Rosy — 

Doodness knows, I 
Don't know how to manage 'tall ! 

" Jack or Norah's 

Telled a story ! 
One or t'uver ate ma's cake ! 

While there's silly, 

Greedy Willy, 
Got a drefful stomach ache ! 

" Naughty Bessie 

Tored her dress; she 
Wants anuver one, I s'pose ; 

I tell you what 

It tates a lot 
Of work to teep my dolls in tose !" 

Look ! she lays her 

Down by Caesar — 
What can be the matter now? 

Blue eyes closing, 

Blinking, dozing — 
Wee white hands and lily brow — 



LULU'S COMPLAINT. 

(TT|/fr'S a poor 'ittle sorrowful baby, 

If 
111 



It 



For B'idget is way down stairs ; 
My titten has st 'ached my finder, 
And dolly won't say her p'ayers. 



I haint seen my bootiful mamma 

Since-ever so Ion' ado; 
An' I ain't her tuunin'est baby 

No londer, for B'idget says so. 

My ma's got another new baby; 

Dod dived it — he did — yesterday, 
An' it kies, it kies, oh, so defful ! 

I wis' he would tate it away. 

I don't want no "sweet 'ittle sister!" 
I want my dood mamma, I do ; 

I want her to tiss me, an' tiss me, 
An' tall me her p'ecious Lulu ! 

I dess my bid papa will b'in' me 
A 'ittle dood titten some day. 

Here's nurse wid my mamma's new baby, 
I wis' s'e would tate it away. 

Oh, oh, what tun n in' red finders ! 

It sees me yite o' its eyes ! 
I dess we will teep it, and dive it 

Some tanny whenever it kies. 

I dess I will dive it my Dolly 

To play wid mos' every day ; 
And I dess, I dess — Say, B'idget, 

As' Dod not to tate it away. 

Hester A. Benedict. 



66 



H §mid 5 s Iream OF A |TARx 




HERE was once 
a child, and he 
strolled about a 
good deal, and 
thought of a num- 
ber of things. He 
had a sister who 
was a child too, 
and his constant 
companion. They 
wondered at the 
beauty of flowers ; they wondered at the 
height and blueness of the sky ; they won- 
dered at the depth of the water ; they won- 
dered at the goodness and power of God, 
who made them lovely. 

They used to say to one another some- 
times: Supposing all children on earth 
were to die, would the flowers, and the 
water, and the sky be sorry ? They be- 
lieved they would be sorry. For, said they, 
the buds are the children of the flowers, 
and the little playful streams that gambol 
down the hillsides are the children of the 
water, and the smallest little specks playing 
at hide and seek in the sky all night must 
surely be the children of the stars; and 
they would all be grieved to see their play- 
mates, the children of men, no more. 

There was one clear shining star that 
used to come out in the sky before the rest, 
near the church spire, above the graves. It 
was larger and more beautiful, they thought, 
than all the others, and every night they 
watched for it, standing hand-in-hand at a 
window. Whoever saw it first, cried out, 
" I see the star." And after that, they 
cried out both together, knowing so well 
when it would rise, and where. So they 
grew to be such friends with it that, before 
lying down in their bed, they always looked 
out once again to bid it good night ; and 
when they were turning round to sleep, 
they used to say, " God bless the star !" 



But while she was still very young, oh, 
very young, the sister drooped, and came 
to be so weak that she could no longer 
stand at the window at night, and then the 
child looked sadly out by himself, and when 
he saw the star, turned round and said to 
the patient pale face on the bed, " I see the 
star!" and then a smile would come upon 
the face, and a little weak voice used to say, 
" God bless my brother and the star !" 

And so the time came, all too soon, when 
the child looked out all alone, and when 
there was no face on the bed, and when 
there was a grave among the graves, not 
there before, and when the star made long 
rays down towards him as he saw it through 
his tears. 

Now these rays were so bright, and they 
seemed to make such a shining way from 
earth to heaven, that when the child went 
to his solitary bed, he dreamed about a star; 
and dreamed that, lying where he was, he 
saw a train of people taken up that spark- 
ling road by angels; and the star, opening, 
showing him a great world of light, where 
many more such angels waited to receive 
them. 

All these angels, who were waiting 
turned their beaming eyes upon the people 
who were carried up into the star; and soon 
came out from the long rows in which they 
stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and 
kissed them tenderly, and went away with 
them down the avenues of light, and were 
so happy in their company, that lying in his 
bed, he wept for joy. 

But there were many angels who did not 
go with them, and among them one he 
knew. The patient face that once had lain 
upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but 
his heart found out his sister among all the 
host. 

His sister's angel lingered near the en- 
trance of the. star, and said to the leader 



67 



A CHILD'S BREAM OF A STAR. 



all the star, because the mother was re- 
united to her two children. And he 
stretched out his arms and cried, " Oh, 
mother, sister and brother, I am here! 
Take me !" And they answered him, "Not 



among those who had brought the people 
thither : 

" Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " No !" 

She was turning hopefully away, when 
the child stretched out his arms, and cried, yet !" — and the star was still shining. 
" Oh ! sister, I am here ! Take me !" And He grew to be a man, whose hair was 
then she turned her beaming eyes upon turning gray, and he was sitting in his 
him, — and it was night; and the star was chair by the fireside, heavy with grief, and 
shining into the room, making long rays with his face bedewed with tears, when the 
down toward him as he saw it through his star opened once again, 
tears. Said his sister's angel to the leader, " Is 

From that hour forth, the child looked my brother come ?" 



out upon the star as the home he was to go 
to when his time should come; and he 
thought that he did not belong to the earth 
alone, but to the star too, because of his sis- 
ter's angel gone before. 



And he said, " Nay, but his maiden 
daughter !" 

And the man who had been the child saw 
his daughter, newly lost to him, a celestial 
creature among those three, and he said : 



There was a baby born to be a brother to " My daughter's head is on my sister's 

the child, and while he was so little that he bosom, and her arm is around my mother's 

never yet had spoken a word, he stretched neck, and at her feet is the baby of old 

out his tiny form on his bed, and died. time, and I can bear the parting from her, 

Again the child dreamed of the opened God be praised." — And the star was shin- 
star, and of the company of angels, and the ing. 

train of people, and the rows of angels, Thus the child came to be an old man, 

with their beaming eyes all turned upon and his once smooth face was wrinkled, and 



those people's faces. 

Said his sister's angel to the leader : 

" Is my brother come ?" 

And he said, " Not that one, but an- 
other !" 

As the child beheld his brother's angel 
in her arms, he cried, " Oh, my sister, I am 
here ! Take me !" And she turned and 
smiled upon him, — and the star was shining. 



his steps were slow and feeble, and his 
back was bent. And one night as he lay 
upon his bed, his children standing round, 
he cried, as he cried so long ago : " I see 
the star !" 

They whispered to one another, " He is 
dying." And he said, " I am. My age is 
falling from me like a garment, and I 
move towards the star as a child. And O, 



He grew to be a young man, and was my Father, now I thank Thee that it has 
busy at his books, when an old servant • so often opened to receive those dear ones 



came to him and said : 

" Thy mother is no more, 
blessing on her darling son." 

Again at night he saw the star, and all 
that former company. Said his sister's an- 
gel to the leader, " Is my brother come ?" 

And he said "Thy mother!" 

A mighty cry of joy went forth through 



who await me !" — 
I bring her And the star was shining ; and it shines 
upon his grave. 



Charles Dickens. 



A torn jacket is soon mended ; but hard 
words bruise the heart of a child. 

H. W. Longfellow. 



68 



£^s 




WO little children, 

five years old, 
Marie the gentle, 

Charlie the bold ; 
Sweet and bright 

and quaintly wise 
Angels both in their 

mother"s eves. 



But you, if you follow my Terse, shall see 
That they were as human as human can be, 
And had not yet learned the maturer art 
Of hiding the " self of the finite heart. 

One day, they found, in their romp and play, 
Two little rabbits soft and gray — 
Soft and gray, and just of a size, 
As like each other as your two eyes, 

All day long the children made love 
To the dear little pets — their treasure trove; 
They kissed and hugged them until the night 
Brought to the conies a glad respite. 

Too much fondling doesn't agree 
With the rabbit nature, as we shall see, 
For ere the light of another day 
•Had chased the shadows of night away, 

One little pet had gone to the shades, 
Or, let us hope, to perennial glades, 
Brighter and softer than any below — 
A heaven where good little rabbits grow. 

The living and dead lay side by side, 

And still alike as before one died ; 

And it chanced that the children came singly to 

view 
The pets they had dreamed of all the night 

through. 

First came Charlie, and, with sad surprise, 
Beheld the dead with streaming eyes 
Howe'er, consoling, he said, 
"Poor little Marie— her rabbit's dead !" 



Later came Marie, and stood aghast ; 

She kissed and caressed it, but at last 

Found voice to say, while her young heart 

bled, 
" Fm so sorrv for Charlie — his rabbifs dead T 



<&-> 



- * - v » "^ - 



TELLING A STORY. 

iPW 1 ^ 'ITTLE Blue-eyes is sleepy, 
, -f£*g^ Come here and be rocked to sleep. 
|K£S jj What shall I tell you, darling ? 
The story of Little Bo Peep ? 
Or of the cows in the garden, 

Or the children who ran away ? 
If I'm to be story-teller 

What shall I tell you, pray ? 

" Tell me" — the Blue-eyes opened 

Like pansies when they blow, 
"Of the baby in the manger, 

The little child-Christ, you know. 
I like to hear that 'tory 

The best of all you fell." 
And my four-year-old nestled closer 

As the twilight shadows fell. 

And I told my darling over 

The old, old tale again : 
Of the baby born in the manger, 

And the Christ who died for men, 
Of the great warm heart of Jesus, 

And the children whom He blest, 
Like the blue-eyed boy who listened 

As he lay upon my breast. 

And I prayed, as my darling slumbered, 

That my child, with eyes so sweet, 
Might learn from his Saviour's lesson 

And sit at the Master's feet. 
Pray God he may never forget it, 

But always love to hear 
The tender and touching story 

That now he holds so dear. 

Ebes E. Rexfoed. 



69 




HEEE little curly heads golden 

and fair, 
Three pairs of hands that are 

lifted in prayer, 
Three little figures in garments 

of white, 
Three little mouths that are 

kissed for good-night, 
Three little gowns that are folded 
away, 

Three little children who rest from their play, 
Three little hearts that are full of delight, 
For this is the close of a sweet Sunday nigh:. 

And mamma had clustered them all round her 

knee, 
And made them as happy as children could he ; 
She told to them stories of Jesus of old 
Who called little children like lambs to His fold; 
Who gathered them up in His arms to caress, 
And blessed them as only a Saviour could bless, 
While the innocent faces grew tender and bright, 
With the sweet, earnest talk of the calm Sunday 

night. 

And the blue eyes of Bennie had widen'd with 

fear, 
While Maidie had dropped an occasional tear, 
When they heard of the lions and Daniel so bold, 
And Joseph who once by his brethren was sold, 
And the children who walked 'mid the furnace of 

flame, 
Till the Angel of God in his purity came, 
Walking unharmed in their garments of white, — 
Oh, these were sweet stories to hear Sunday night ! 

And Maidie had said — the dear little child — 
Looking up in the face of her mother so mild, 
"I wish — oh, so much ! — I wish, mamma, dear. 
When the angels were walking they'd come to us 

here; 
I'd like once to see them, so shining and fair, 
Come floating and floating right down through 

the air. 
Let's ask them to come," said the wee little sprite, 
" Let's ask them to come to us this Sunday night." 

Then mamma told in her grave, gentle way, 
How the angels were guarding the children each 
day; 



How they stood softly round by the little one's 

bed ; 
How the blessing descended alike on each head ; 
But when they were naughty or wilfully bad, 
Then the Father was grieved and His angels were 

sad. 
" Ah, I mean to be good," lisped the baby, " and 

then 
I may see them some time when they're coming 

to Ben !" 

Oh, the innocent children ! How little they know 

Of the dear eyes in heaven bent on them below ; 

Of the guardian spirits, who close by their side 

Are watching and waiting to strengthen and 
guide ; 

And now, as they lie wrapped in dreams and in 
sleep, 

How ceaseless the vigils the angels will keep ! 

And mamma prays, ''Father, oh, guide them, 
aright, 

And send Thy good angels to guard them to- 
night!" 

Mary R. Higham. 

CHILD'S MORNING HYMN. 

• AFELY guarded by Thy presence, 
By Thy tender love and power, 
Holy Father ! Thou hast brought me 
To this peaceful happy hour. 

While the night shades gather round me, 
While " I laid me down and slept," 

'Twas Thy mercy that sustained me, 
And my life in being kept. 

Thoughts of all this care so tender, 

Wake a morning hymn of praise, 
While a song of full thanksgiving, 

Here and pow to Thee I raise. 

Strengthened thus in mind and body, 

Help me to begin anew, 
In the race of love and duty, 

And the right each hour pursue. 

So, when all life's changing seasons, 

Fraught with "weal or woe," are past, 
Kept and saved by love eternal, 

Praise shall crown the work at last. 

E. S. 



70 



-«•*£ 



3* 



Q 



*£. 



S*- 




HE dwelt among the untrodden ways 

Beside the springs of Dove, 
A maid whom there were none to praise, 
And very few to love : 

A violet by a mossy stone 

Half hidden from the eye ! 
Fair as a star, when only one 

Is shining in the sky. 



She lived unknown, and few could know 

When Lucy ceased to be : 
But she is in her grave, and, oh ! 

The difference to me ! 

Three years she grew in sun and shower; 
Then Nature said : " A lovelier flower 

On earth was never sown ; 
This child I to myself will take ; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 

A lady of my own. 

" Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse ; and with me 

The girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower. 
Shall feel an overseeing power, 

To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 

Or up the mountain springs ; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 

Of mute insatiate things. 

" The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her ; for her the willow bend : 

Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 

By silent sympathy. 

" The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her ; and she shall lean her ear 

In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 

Shall pass into her face. 

" And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell ; 



:'*"- 



Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 

Here in this happy dell." 
Thus Nature spake. — The work was done — 
How soon my Lucy's race was run ! 

She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm, and quiet scene ; 
The memory of what has been, 

And never more will be. 

"William Woedswoeth, 
W 

GOING TO BED. 

»UR Fannie Angelina 

Didn't want to go to bed, — 
Her reasons would you know ? then 

Let me tell you what she said. 
At eight o'clock precisely, 

At the close of yesterday, 
Her mamma in the trundle-bed 
Had tucked her snug away. 
" It isn't time to go to bed, 

The clock goes round too quick ; 
It hurts my back to lie in bed 

And almost makes me sick : 
I want to show my Uncle George 

My pretty birthday ring ; 
And sing him ' Jesus loves me,' 

For he likes to hear me sing ; 
My dollie, Haddynewya, 

Her yellow dress is thin, 
And she's sitting on the horse-block, 

I forgot to bring her in ; 
I want to go and get her, 

She'll catch a cold and die ; 
I want to get my nankachick, 

I guess I've got to cry. 
I said I'd wait till papa comes, 

I wonder what he'll think ; 
There's something hurts me in my throat, 

I want to get a drink. 
I guess I'd rather get it in 

My little silver cup — 
What makes me have to go to bed 

When you are staying up?" 
So Fannie Angelina 

Was determined not to do it. 
Yet she drifted off to Nod land, 

Poor child, before she knew it. 
The queen who reigns in Nod land 

Shut her willful eyes so tight, 
They quite forgot to open 

Till the sun was shining- bright. 



71 




MY PLAYMATES. §cff 



ONCE had a sister, oh fair 
'mid the fair ! 
With a face that looked out 

from its soft golden hair, 
Like a lily some tall stately 

angel may hold, 
Half revealed, half concealed 

in a mist of pure gold. 
I once had a brother, more 

dear than the day, 
With a temper as sweet as 
the blossoms in May ; 
With dark hair like a cloud, and a face like a rose, 
The red child of the wild! when the summer- 
wind blows. 
We lived in a cottage that stood in a dell ; 
Were we born there or brought there I never 

could tell ; 
Were we nursed by the angels, or clothed by the 

fays, 
Or, who led when we fled down the deep sylvan 
ways, 

'Mid treasures of gold and silver ! 

When we rose in the morning we ever said 

"Hark!" 
We shall hear, if we list, the first word of the lark ; 
And we stood with our faces, calm, silent and 

bright, 
While the breeze in the trees held his breath with 

delight. 
Oh the stream ran with music, the leaves dript 

with dew, 
And we looked up and saw the great God in the 

blue; 
And we praised him and blessed him, but said 

not a word, 
For we soared, we adored, with that magical bird. 
Then with hand linked in hand, how we laughed, 

how we sung ! 
How we danced in a ring, when the morning was 

young ! 
How we wandered where kingcups were crusted 

with gold, 
Or more white than the light glittered daisies 

untold, 

Those treasures of gold and of silver ! 

Oh, well I remember the flowers that we found, 
With the red and white blossoms that damasked always wondering why it had ever been born, 
the ground ; Charles Dickens. 

72 



And the long lane of light, that, half yellow, half 

green, 
Seemed to fade down the glade where the young 

fairy queen 
Would sit with her fairies around her and sing, 
While we listened all ear, to that song of the 

Spring, 
Oh, well I remember the lights in the west, 
And the spire, where the fire of the sun seemed 

to rest, 
When the earth, crimson-shadowed, laughed out 

in the air, — 
Ah ! I'll never believe that the fairies were there; 
Such a feeling of loving and longing was ours, 
And we saw, with glad awe, little hands in the 

flowers, 

Drop treasures of gold and of silver. 

Oh, weep ye and wail ! for that sister, alas ! 
And that fair gentle brother lie low in the grass ; 
Perchance the red robins may strew them with 

leaves, 
That each morn, for white corn, would come down 

from the eaves ; 
Perchance of their dust the young violets are 

made, 
That bloom by the church that is hid in the glade ; 
But one day I shall learn, if I pass where they 

grow, 
Far more sweet they will greet their old play- 
mates, I know. 
Ah ! the cottage is gone, and no longer I see 
The old glade, the old paths, and no lark sings 

for me : 
But I still must believe that the fairies are there, 
That the light grows more bright, touched by 

fingers so fair, 

'Mid treasures of gold and of silver ! 



-j=«3-<?~SSei- 



A DESCRIPTION OF TWO BABIES. 

1. One of those little carved representa- 
tions that one sometimes sees blowing a 
trumpet on a tombstone ! 

2. A weazen little baby, with a heavy 
head that it couldn't hold up, and two weak, 
staring eyes, with which it seemed to be 




THE NUKSE'S SONG 





HEN nursery lamps are veil- 
ed, and nurse is singing 
In accents low, 
Timing her music to the 
cradle's swinging, 
Now fast, now slow — 



Singing of Baby Bunting, 
soft and furry 
In rabbit cloak, 
Or rock-a-byed amid the toss and flurry 
Of wind-swept oak? 

Of Boy Blue sleeping with his horn beside him ; 

Of my son John, 
Who went to bed (let all good boys deride him) 

With stockings on ; 

Of sweet Bo-Peep, following her lambkins stray- 
ing; 

Of Dames in shoes, 
Of cows, considerate, 'mid the Piper's playing, 
Which time to choose ; 



A grown-up child has place still, which no other 

May dare refuse, 
i, grown-up, bring this offering to our Mother, 

To Mother Goose, 

And, standing with the babies at that olden, 

Immortal knee, 
I seem to feel her smile, benign and golden, 

Falling on me. 

Susan Coolidge 

Ranting 3ftmastf io irour. 



TfijiEAR little bright-eyed Willie 
HIljJI Always so full of glee, 
|St, Always so very mischievous, 
^GJi The pride of our home is he. 

One bright summer day we found him 

Close by the garden wall, 
Standing so grave and dignified 

Beside a sunflower tall. 



Of Gotham's wise men bowing o'er the billow, 

Or him, less wise, 
Who chose rough bramble-bushes for a pillow, 

And scratched his eyes. 

It may be, while she sings, that through the 
portal 

Soft footsteps glide, 
And, all invisible to grown-up mortal, 

At cradle side 

Sits Mother Goose herself, the dear old mother, 

And rocks and croons, 
_In tones which Baby hearkens, but no other, 

Her old-new tunes ! 

I think it must be so, else why, years after, 

Do we retrace 
And ring with shadowy, recollected laughter, 

Thoughts of that face ; 

Seen, yet unseen, beaming across the ages 

Brimful of fun 
And wit and wisdom, baffling all the sages 

Under the sun ? 



His tiny feet he had covered 

With the moist and cooling sand ; 

The stalk of the great, tall sunflower 
He grasped with his chubby hand. 

When he saw us standing near him, 

Gazing so wonderingly 
At his babyship, he greeted us 

With a merry shout of glee. 

We asked our darling what pleased him : 
He replied with a face aglow, 

" Mamma, I'm going to be a man ; 
I've planted myself to grow /" 



CHILDHOOD. 

Happy those early days, when we 
Breathed in our guiltless Infancy ! 
Who would love to travel back, 
And tread again that long-passed track 
Before the tongue had learned to say 
Aught that the conscience could bewray, 
Or the sad knowledge to dispense 
A several sin to every sense. 



73 



GATES AJAR. " 



«— K V+ 



EAZING where the setting sun-rays 
Steeped the clouds in gorgeous dyes, 
Stood my little maid last evening, 
All her soul within her eyes. 
"Mamma?" cried she, earnest, breathless, 

With a faith no doubt could mar, 
"Isn't that what you've been reading? 
Isn't that the ' Gates Ajar ? ' " 

" I can almost see the shining 

Of the streets all paved with gold! 
I can almost see the gleaming 

Of the harps the angels hold ! 
Almost, mamma! for the glory 

Shines so bright it dazzles me." 
" Mamma ! " here the soft voice faltered, 

"Ain't I good enough to see! 

" Is it 'cause I cried this morning 

When you called me in from my play? 
If I try again to-morrow, 

Be real careful all the day, 
Give you not the smallest trouble, 

Study all my might and main — 
Won't God let me see it plainly, 

When he ope's the gates again?" 

" Nay my darling — years of striving, 

Day by day, and hour by hour, 
Every duty still fulfilling, 

Could not give the wondrous power ; 
Yet would mist of sun and weakness 

From your gaze the vision bar — 
Never human eyes, unaided 

Penetrate the gates ajar! " 

Filled with wonder, vague yet wistful, 

Gazed the soft blue eyes in mine, 
Reading not my hidden meaning, 

Loath the bright dream to resign. 
"Never, mamma! shall I never 

See that Heaven so bright and fair, 
'Till I leave you, mamma, darling, 

'Till the angels take me there?" 

"Nay, my child, that heavenly radiance 

Ne'er on earthly vision falls — 
But to those whose hope and treasure 

Garnered are within its walls, 
God gives ofttimes spirit glimpses 

Of their glorious home afar, 



And to cheer life's thorny pathway 
Sets the golden gates ajar ! 

" Then how petty seem the trials 

That beset their onward way ! 
Of what little worth the baubles 

Pleasures show to tempt astray ! 
No more weak and no more weary — 

What this perfect bliss can mar ! 
While Faith's eyes behold the glories 

Gleaming though the gates ajar ! 

' 0, my darling, grasp the promise, 

Bind it on your baby heart, 
That for those who love him, Jesus 

Mansions bright hath set apart ! 
Upward, then, towards the radiance, 

Steadfast shining like a star, 
Unbetrayed your feet shall journey 

'Till they reach the gates ajar." 

NA L. 



MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 



OH dear old friend ! I come this way 
Once more, once more to rest on thee, 
While generous branch and leafy spraj- 
A pleasant bower make for me. 

It seems as only yesterday 
That I was racing down the mead, 

With young companions blithe and gay, 
To mount thee, brave and bonny steed. 

The blackbird pipes as cheerily now, 

As gaily flaunts the butterfly, 
As when we shook the pliant bough 

By madly urging thee on high. 

But scattered is that gamesome band 
That filled with mirth the flying hours; 

One sojourns in a distant land, 
One sleeps beneath the daisy flowers. 

And others from my ken have passed, 
But this I feel, where'er they be, 

They'll not forget while life shall last 
Our swing beneath the chestnut-tree. 

J. G. WATTS. 



74 




MEMORIES OF CHILDHOOD. 




HABBY'S LKTTBfi. 



EAR BILL: 

Here I am in Lincoln- 
shire. Now I'll tell you 
what I want. I want you 
to come down here for the 
holidays. Don't be afraid. 
Ask your sister to ask 
your mother to ask your father to let you 
come. It's only ninety miles. If you're 
out of pocket-money, you can walk, and 
beg a lift now and then, or swing by the 
dickeys. Put on corduroys, and don't care 
for cut behind. The two prentices, George 
and Nick, are here to be made farmers of, 
and brother Frank is took home from 
school to help in agriculture. We like farm- 
ing ever so much ; it's capital fun. Us four 
have got a gun, and go out shooting ; it's a 
famous good one, and sure to go off if you 
don't full cock it. Tiger is to be our 
shooting dog as soon as he has left oif kill- 
ing the sheep. He's a real savage, and 
worries cats beautiful. Before father comes 
down, we mean to bait our bull with him. 

There's plenty of new rivers about, and 
we're going a fishing as soon as we have 
mended our top joint. We've killed one 
of our sheep on the sly to get gentles. 
We've a pony, too, to ride upon when we 
can catch him, but he's loose in the paddock, 
and has neither mane nor tail to signify to 
lay hold of. Isn't it prime, Bill? You 
must come. If your mother won't give 
your father leave to allow you, run away. 
There's a pond full of frogs, but we won't 
pelt them till you come ; but let it be before 
Sunday, as there's our own orchard to rob, 
and the fruits to be gathered on Monday. 
If you like sucking raw eggs, we know 
where the hens lay, and mother don't ; and 
I'm bound there's lots of birds' nests. Do 
come, Bill, and I'll show you the wasp's 
nest, and everything to make you com- 
fortable. I dare say you could borrow 



your father's volunteer musket of him 
without his knowing it ; but be sure any 
how to bring the ramrod, as we've mislaid 
ours by firing it oif. Don't forget some 
bird-lime, Bill, and some fish-hooks, and 
some different sorts of shot, and some gun- 
powder, and a gentle-box, and some flints, 
some May-flies, and a powder-horn, and a 
landing-net and a dog-whistle, and some 
porcupine-quills, and a bullet mould, and a 
trolling- winch, and a shot-belt, and a tin- 
can. You pay for 'em, Bill, and I'll owe 
it you. 

Your old friend and school-fellow, 
Harry. 

Thomas Hood. 

fi. patient J3aby. 

POOR little baby 
— such a tiny 
old-faced mite, 
with a counte- 
nance that seem- 
ed to be scarcely 
anything but cap 
border, and a 
little lean, long- 
fingered hand, 
always clenched under its chin. It would 
lie in this attitude all day, with its bright 
specks of eyes open, wondering (as I used 
to imagine) how it came to be so small and 
weak. Whenever it was moved it cried, 
but at all other times it was so patient, that 
the sole desire of its life appeared to be, to 
lie quiet and think. It had curious little 
dark veins in its face, and curious little 
dark marks under its eyes, like faint 
remembrances of poor Caddy's inky days, 
and altogether, to those who were not used 
to it, it was quite a piteous little sight. 

Charles Dickens. 




76 




< s*- < ^aft 



Iq T§b Cradle-Boat, 



8p~ 



Z^ 



<^& 



H, the bonnie sailor boy, and oh, the bonnie boatie! 
Swing high, swing low — launch away to sea ! 
Who but mother, staunch and true, shall row the bonnie boatie, 
Sailing to the lily-land, where lovely dreams may be? 



Uuder golden moon and stars, and down a golden river : 
Swing high, swing low — mother watch will keep. 

Drowsy leaves are drooping near, and purple primroses quiver • 
Drop the anchor softly in the quiet cove of sleep ! 

Oh, the bonnie sailor, and oh, the bonnie boatie ! 

Swing high, swing low — rosy' morning beams. 
Many miles and home again, it's row the bonnie boatie : 

Mother clasps her sailor from the pretty port of Dreams ! 

GEORGE COOPER. 



TT. 



*W 



ftSLeK 



f*rilk 



-*THE*GREEK*BOY.K 



^T^OXE are the glorious Greeks of old, 
jSfSj Glorious in mien and mind; 

Their bones are mingled with the mould, 
Their dust is on the wind ; 
The forms they hewed from living stone 
Survive the waste of years alone, 
And scattered with their ashes, show 
What greatness perished long ago. 

Yet fresh the myrtles there — the sjDrings 

Gush brightly as of yore ; 
Flowers blossom from the dust of kings, 

As many an age before. 
There nature moulds as nobly now, 
As e'er of old, the human brow : 
And copies still the martial form 
That braved Plalser's battle storm. 

Boy ! thy first looks were taught to seek 
Their heaven in Hellas's skies ; 

Her airs have tinged thy dusky cheek, 
Her sunshine lit thine eyes ; 



Thine ears have drunk the woodland strains 
Heard by old poets, and thy veins 
Swell with the blood of demigods, 
That slumber in thy country's sods. 

ISTow is thy nation free — though late — 

Thy elder brethern broke — 
Broke, ere thy spirit felt its weight, 

The intolerable yoke. 
And Greece, decayed, dethroned, doth see 
Her youth renewed in such as thee : 
A shoot of that old vine that made 
The nations silent in its shade. 

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. 



c/SS^X, 



A CHILD'S THOUGHT. 



THEBE is a beautiful snow-white wing 
Across the heavens lying ; 
It must be one of the day's great wings, 
For they say the hours are flying. 

M. F. BUTTS. 



77 



^WHICM*SMILMT+BE?^ 



WHICH shall it be? which shall it be?" 
I looked at John,— John looked at me. 
(Dear, patient John, who loves me yet 
As well as though my locks were jet.) 
And when I found that I must speak, 
My voice seemed strangely low and weak ; 
" Tell me again what Eobert said ; " 
And then I listening bent my head. 
"This is his letter: " 

" I will give 
A house and land while you shall live 
If, in return, from out your seven, 
One child to me for aye is given." 

I looked at John's old garments worn, 

I though of all that John had borne 

Of poverty, and work, and care, 

Which I, though willing, could not share; 

Of seven hungry mouths to feed, 

Of seven little children's need, 

And then of this. 

" Come, John," said I, 
"We'll choose among them as they lie 
Asleep ; " so walking hand in hand, 
Dear John and I surveyed our band. 

First to the cradle lightly stepped, 

Where Lilian, the baby slept ; 

Her damp curls lay, like gold alight, 

A glory 'gainst the pillow white; 

Softly her father stooped to lay 

His rough hand down in loving way, 

When dream or whisper made her stir, 

And huskily he said, "Not her." 

We stooped beside the trundle-bed, 

And one long ray of lamp-light shed 

Athwart the boyish faces there, 

In sleep so pitiful and fair. 

I saw on Jamie's rough red cheek 

A tear undried ; ere John could speak, 

"He's but a baby too," said I, 

And kissed him as we hurried by. 

Pale, patient Hobby's angel face 

Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace ; 

"No, for a thousand crowns, not him," 

He whispered, while our eyes were dim. 



"2) 



Poor Dick ! sad Dick ! our wayward son, 

Turbulent, reckless, idle one, — 

Could he be spared? " Nay, he who gave 

Bids us befriend him to the grave ; 

Only a mother's heart can be 

Patient enough for such as he ; 

And so," said John, " I would not dare 

To send him from her bedside prayer." 

Then stole we softly up above, 

And knelt by Mary, child of love ; 

" Perhaps for her 'twould better be," 

I said to John. Quite silently 

He lifted up a curl, that lay 

Across her cheek in wilful way, 

And shook his head : "Nay, love, not thee ; " 

The while my heart beat audibly. 

Only one more, our eldest lad, 

Trusty and truthful, good and glad, — 

So like his father : " No, John, no ; 

I cannot, will not, let him go! " 

And so we wrote, in courteous way, 
We could not give one child away ; 
And afterward toil lighter seemed, 
Thinking of that of which we dreamed ; 
Happy, in truth, that not one face 
We missed from its accustomed place ; 
Thankful to work for all the seven, 
Trusting then to One in heaven. 



(T^fcSflk*^ 



HONEY NELLIE. 



-H5£ffiS3 



(i 



THERE was once a little maiden, 
They called her "Honey Nellie," 
Who pounds of sugar saved her folks 

When they were making jelly; 
For her smile had so much sweetness 

That the currants and the gooseberries, 
If she but smiled upon them once, 
Turned sweet as ripest cherries. 

MARY A. LATHBURY 




O— - 



TO LAURA, TWO YEARS OF AGE. 



RIGHT be the skies 
that cover thee, 
Child of the sunny 
brow — 
Bright as the dream 
flung over thee — 
By all that meets 
thee now — 
Thy heart is beating 
joyously, 
Thy voice is like a 
bird's — 
And sweetly breaks 
the melody 
Of thy imperfect words. 
I know no fount that gushes out 
As gladly as thy tiny shout. 

I would that thou might' st ever be 

As beautiful as now, — 
That time might ever leave as free 

Thy yet unwritten brow : 
I would life were " all poetry " 

To gentle measure set, 
That nought but chasten'd melody 

Might stain thine eye of jet — 
Nor one discordant note be spoken, 
Till God the cunning harp hath broken. 

I would — but deeper things than these 

With woman's lot are wove ; 
Wrought of intensest sympathies, 

And nerved by purest love — 
By the strong spirit's discipline, 

By the fierce wrong forgiven, 
By all that wrings the heart of sin, 

Is woman won to heaven. 
" Her lot is on thee," lovely child — 
God keep thy spirit undefiled ! 

I fear thy gentle loveliness, 

Thy witching tone and air, 
Thine eye's beseeching earnestness 

May be to thee a snare. 
The silver stars may purely shine, 

The waters taintless flow — 
But they who kneel at woman's shine, 

Wreathe poisons as they bow — 
She may fling back the gift again 
But the crush'd flower will oftenest stain. 



What shall preserve thee, beautiful child? 

Keep thee as thou art now ? 
Bring thee, a spirit undefiled, 

At God's pure throne to bow ? 
The world is but a broken reed, 

And life grows early dim — 
Who shall be near thee in thy need, 

To lead thee up to Him ? 
He, who Himself was '' undefiled?" 
With Him we trust thee, beautiful child ! 

N. P. Willis. 



Stormy-Day Party. 

BABY and I are invited 
To a fine party, they say, 
I'm sure we will be delighted 

To go on this stormy day. 
" Give my love — I'll come ; baby, too, 
Joins me with a hearty, ' a-goo.' " 

'"Tis not very far — just walk out here," 

Said dancing little Freddy, 
"Have this easy-chair, mamma dear, 

The party is quite ready. 
Mrs. Hippo, mamma ; Miss Rose, too," 
I bowed, and baby said, " a-goo." 

Freddy did so very funny look, 

In papa's coat and high hat, 
Grace, as Mrs. Hippo and chief cook, 

In Bridget's new calico, sat. 
We talked and chatted as people do, 
Baby repeating his sweet "a-goo." 

Tea was served on dainty dishes, 
Nuts, pop-corn and bits of cake, 

Peppermints and candy fishes, 
Were spread for us to partake. 

We sipped and ate, enjoyed it, too, 

And baby laughed and said "a-goo." 

A step was heard out in the hall, 
Stamping the snow from the feet, 

"Papa's come," we shouted, and all 
Invited him to the treat. 

He gave us kisses, not a few, 

But best of all was baby's "a-goo." 

" I'm so glad," the dear papa said, 
"While storming so wild without, 

We have sunshine within. Fred, 
Ask mamma to play ; no doubt 

We can join in the singing, too, 

And baby help with his ' a-goo.' " 

" Squid Scotch. 



^*<?($r 



r 



SUNSHINE IN THE HOUSE; 



^\ 




KIGHTER than the sunshine on a stormy April day, 
Is the smile with which a little maid can drive her tears away; 
Sweeter than the music of a silver-throated bird, 
Comes forth her gentle answer to a wrath-provoking word ; 
More welcome than the perfume breathed from violet or rose, 
Is the influence of sweetness that shall follow where she goes : 
And as the little streamlet sings while watering its flowers, 
So she can make her work seem light, and sing through busy hours. 
Then set a guard on little lips, and little actions, too, 
With sunshine bright and music sweet begin each day anew ; 
For nothing half so dear is found, in garden, field or wood, 
As the precious little boy or girl who's trying to be good. 

CLARA LOUISE BURN HAM. 



f|> 



CYAO 



One by One. 

jjNE by one the sands are flowing, 
One by one the moments fall ; 
Some are coming, some are going ; 
Do not strive to grasp them all. 

One by one thy duties Avait thee, 
Let thy whole strength go to each, 

Let no future dreams elate thee, 

Learn thou first what these can teach. 

One by one (bright gifts from heaven) 
Joys are sent thee here below ; 

Take them readily when given, 
Ready, too, to let them go. 

One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, 
Do not fear an armed band ; 

One will fade as others greet thee; 
Shadows passing through the land. 



Do not look at life's long sorrow ; 

See how small each moment's pain ; 
God will help thee for to-morrow, 

So each day begin again. 

Every hour that fleets so slowly 
Has its tasks to do or bear ; 

Luminous the crown and holy, 
When each gem is set with care. 

Do not linger with regretting, 
Or for passing hours despond ; 

Nor the daily toil forgetting, 
Look too eagerly beyond. 

Hours are golden links, God's token, 
Reaching heaven ; but one by one 

Take them, lest the chain be broken 
Ere the pilgrimage be done. 

ADELAIDE A. PROCTOR. 



80 




THE MOTHER AS TEACHER. 




HE mother is the lumi- 
nary that shines and 
reigns alone in the ear- 
ly child-life; as years 
advance, the scepter is 
divided and the teach- 
er shares the sway. 

We often think, as 
we meet the earnest 
gaze of the interested 
pupil, and watch the mind working and 
the young thought shaping to the will, 
" Why is it that mothers so willingly yield 
to others this broad sphere of their domain, 
and are content to foster the physical and 
external life of their children, leaving the 
intellectual and spiritual to grow without 
their aid ? " 



81 



One would suppose that capable moth- 
ers would jealously keep to themselves the 
high privilege of training the mind, and 
so bind their children to themselves by 
ties which are stronger than the mere 
physical tie can be. 

We who have grown to realize to whom, 
we are debtors, are thrilled with delight 
as we think of those who have been the 
parents of our intellectual life — who seem 
nearer to us than our familiar friends, 
though we never have and never may look 
upon their living faces, — Bryant, Long- 
fellow, Ruskin, Emerson and Carlyle, and 
many another. How they have covered 
our lives with a rich broidery of beau- 
tiful and inspiring thought, so that to 



THE MOTHER AS TEACHER. 



live in the same world, and at the same 
time, seems a benison of blessing. 

So may the mother weave into the life 
of her children thoughts and feelings, rich, 
beautiful, grand and noble, which will 
make all after-life brighter and better. 

Many a good mother may think she has 
no time for this mind and soul culture, 
but we find no lack of robes and ruffles, 
and except in cases where the daily bread 
of the family must be earned by daily 
work away from home, as is done by many 
a weary mother, we must feel that there 
is not one who cannot command one half 
hour each morning, when the mind is fresh 
and vigorous, to collect her children around 
her, and minister for a little to their higher 
wants. 

If each mother according to her several 
ability, seeks to develop the higher and 
better faculties of her children, the reward 
will be as great as the aim is noble. 



£fe 



SWEET AND LOW. 




rWEET and low, sweet and low, 
Wind of the western sea, 
Low, low, breathe and blow, 
Wind of the western sea! 
Over the rolling waters go, 
Come from the dying moon, and blow, 

Blow him again to me ; 
While my little one, Avhile my pretty one 
sleeps. 

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, 

Father will come to thee soon; 
Eest, rest, on mother's breast, 

Father will come to thee soon ; 
Father will come to his babe in the nest, 
Silver sails all out of the west 

Under the silver moon : 
Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, 
sleep. 



-^ B 



A 



B Y ^«- 



§|||iABY, baby, on my breast, 
fll§f Oh, my little one, sleep sound ! 
While the red clouds warm the west, 
And the bright leaves light the ground. 
Mother's love is round you here ; 
God's love, too, is close and near; 
Full and happy be thy rest, 
Baby, baby, on my breast ! 

Baby, baby, at my knee, 

Lift your eyes up, let them show 
All the dreams I cannot see ; 

Talk and tell me, make me know 
How the world's dim puzzles seem 
To your soul's pure Avaking dream. 
Bring your marbles all to me, 
Baby, baby, at my knee. 

Baby, baby, at my side, 

Ah, your cheek just reaches mine, 
So, time will not be denied ; 

Glossy braids are smooth and fine, 
And I read within your eyes 
Womanhood's fair mysteries, 
Baby, baby, at my side, 
Tall enough to be a bride ! 

Baby, baby, far from me, 

Lines of care have crossed your brow, 
Little children climb your knee, 

Fill your heart and household now, 
" Mother," is my baby's name, 
Yet to me, she's still the same ; 
Still the child I rocked to rest 
As a baby on my breast. 

MARY AINGE DE VERE. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



82 



LIFE'S HAPPIEST PERIOD. 




IFE'S lAPPIEST JpERIOD. 

HERE is no pleas- 
ure that I have 
experienced like a 
child's mid-sum- 
mer holiday — the 
time, I mean, when 
two or three of us 
used to go away up 
the brook and take 
our dinners with us, and come home at 
night, tired, happy, scratched beyond 
recognition, with a great nosegay, three 
little trout, and one shoe, the other having 
been used for a boat till it had gone down 
with all hands out of soundings. How 
poor our Derby days, our Greenwich din- 
ners, our evening parties, where there are 
plenty of nice girls, after that ! Depend 
upon it, a man never experiences such 
pleasure or grief after fourteen years as 
he does before, unless in some cases, in 
his first love-making, when the sensation 
is new to him. 

CHARLES KINGSLEY. 



C 



'HILDHOOD AND HIS VISITORS. 



§|NCE on a time, when sunny May 
Was kissing up the April showers, 
I saw fair Childhood hard at play 

Upon a bank of blushing flowers: 
Happy. — he knew not whence or how, — 
And smiling, — who could choose but 
love him? 
For not more glad than Childhood's brow, 
AVas the blue heaven that bloomed 
above him. 

Old Time in most appalling wrath, 
That valley's green repose invaded ; 

The brooks grew dry upon his path, 
The birds were mute, the lilies faded. 

But time so swiftly winged his flight, 
In haste a Grecian tomb to batter, 



That Childhood watched his paper kite, 
And just knew nothing of the matter. 

With curling lip and glancing eye 

Guilt gazed upon the scene a minute ; 
But Childhood's glance of purity 

Had such a holy spell within it, 
That the dark demon to the air 

Spread forth again his baffled pinion, 
And hid his envy and despair, 

Self-tortured, in his own dominion. 

Then stepped a gloomy phantom up, 

Pale, cyprus-crowned Night's awful 
daughter, 
And proffered him a fearful cup 

Full to the brim of bitter water: 
Poor childhood bade her tell her name ; 

And when the beldame muttered, 
"Sorrow," 
He said, " Don't interrupt my game; 

I'll taste it, if I must, to-morrow." 

The Muse of Pinclus thither came, 

And wooed him with the softest numbers 
That ever scattered wealth and fame 

Upon a youthful poet's slumbers ; 
Though sweet the music of the lay, 

To Childhood it was all a riddle, 
And "Oh," he cried, "do send away 

That noisy woman with the fiddle. 

Then Wisdom stole his bat and ball, 

And taught him, with most sage en- 
deavor, 
Why bubbles rise and acorns fall, 

And why no toy may last forever. 
She talked of all the wondrous laws 

Which Nature's open book discloses, 
And Childhood, ere she made a pause, 

Was fast asleep among the roses. 

Sleep on, sleep on ! Oh ! Manhood's 
dreams 

Are all of earthly pain or pleasure, 
Of Glory's toils, Ambition's schemes, 

Of cherished love, of hoarded treasure : 
But to the couch where Childhood lies 

A more delicious trance is given, 
Lit up by rays from seraph eyes, 

And glimpses of remembered Heaven! 

P R AE D. 



83 




Little Willie Waging Up. 




£y OME have thought that in the dawning, 
^L In our being's freshest glow, 
VL^ God is nearer little children 

Than their parents ever know. 
And that if you listen sharply, 

Better things than you can teach, 
And a sort of mystic wisdom 

Trickles through their careless speech. 

How it is I cannot answer, 

But I knew a little child, 
Who, among the thyme and clover, 

And the bees was running wild. 
And he came one summer evening, 

With his ringlets o'er his eyes, 
And his hat was torn in pieces 

Chasing bees and butterflies. 

" Now I'll go to bed, dear mother, 

For I'm very tired of play ! " 
And he said his, " Now I lay me," 

In a kind of careless way. 
And he drank the cooling water, 

From his little silver cup, 
And said, gayly, " When it's morning, 

Will the Angels take me up?" 

Down he sank with roguish laughter 

In his little trundle bed, 
And the kindly god of slumber 

Showered the poppies o'er his head. 
" What could mean his speaking strangely ? " 

Asked his musing mother then — 
" Oh 'twas nothing but his prattle; 

What can he of Angels ken ? " 

There he lies, how sweet and placid, 

And his breathing comes and goes 
Like a zephyr moving softly, 

And his cheek is like a rose ; 
But she leaned her ear to listen 

If his breathing could be heard : 
" Oh," she murmured, "if the Angels 

Took my darling at his word ! " 

Night within its folding mantle 
Hath the sleepers both beguiled, 

And within its soft embracing 
Best the mother and the child ; 



Up she starteth from her dreaming, 
For a sound hath struck her ear — 

And it comes from little Willie, 
Lying on his trundle near. 

Up she springeth, for it strikes upon 

Her troubled ear again, 
And his breath, in louder fetches, 

Travels from his lungs in pain, 
And his eyes are fixing upward 

On some face beyond the room ; 
And the blackness of the spoiler, 

From his cheek hath chased the bloom. 

Never more his, " Now I lay me," 
Shall be said from mother's knee, 

Never more among the clover 
* Will he chase the humble-bee. 

Through the night she watched her darling, 
Now despairing, now in hope ; 

And about the break of morning 
Did the Angels take him up. 

E. H. SEARS. 

Jin UnftinUhed MwfU. 

— •*■ — 

r OW I lay" — say it, darling; 

'• Lay me," lisped the tiny lips 
Of my daughter, kneeling, bending 
O'er her folded finger-tips. 

" Down to sleep — to sleep," she murmured, 
And the curly head dropped low. 

" I pray the Lord," I gently added, 
" You can say it all, I know." 

"Pray the Lord" — the words came faintly, 
Fainter still — " My soul to keep ; " 

Then the tired head fairly nodded, 
And the child was fast asleep. 

But the dewy eyes half opened 
When I clasped her to my breast, 

And the dear voice softly whispered, 
" Mamma, God knows all the rest." 

Oh, the trusting, sweet confiding 
Of that child-heart! Would that I 

Thus might trust my Heavenly Father, 
He who hears my humblest cry. 



84 



+$ TpE ¥pm$ CpLE gOMlJ. f^- 




ING him a cradle song, 

Tender and low ; 
Tell him how Jesus came 

Long, long ago : 
Came as a little one, 

Lowly and mild, 
God's own eternal Son, 

Yet Mary's child. 

Long years may come and pass, 

And there shall be 
Under the churchyard grass 

Slumber for thee ; 
Yet shall thy song live on 

Still in his life, 
Sweeter when thou art gone 

Out of the strife. 



Sorrow will come with time, 

Faith may grow cold ; 
Truth, like a silver chime, 

Calls to the fold ; 
Calls to the roving sheep 

(Gone far astray), 
" Come, and the Lord shall keep 

Spoilers away." 

Say not the words are weak, 

Scorned of the wise ; 
Doth not the Master speak 

In lowly guise? 
He shall thy weakness make 

Holy and strong, 
And thy poor song shall wake 

A sweeter song. 

SARAH DOWDNEY. 



=(T^M 



.^f^> 



EVA AND TOPSY. 




VA stood looking at Topsy. There stood the two children, rep- 
resentatives of the two extremes of society. The fair, 
high-bred child, with her golden head, her deep eyes, 
her spiritual, noble brow, and prince-like movements, 
.;,.. and her black, keen, subtle, cringing, yet acute 

neighbor. They stood the representatives of their 
. races. The Saxon, born of ages of cultivation, 
' command, education, physical and moral eminence ; 
the Afric, born of ages of oppression, submission 
ignorance, toil, and vice ! 

H . B . STOW E. 

85 



All BB1I. 



^ 






AVE you not heard the poets tell 
How came the dainty Baby Bell 

Into this world of ours ? 
The gates of Heaven were left ajar 
With folded hands and dreamy eyes, 
Wandering out of Paradise, 
She saw this planet, like a star, 

Hung in the glistening depths of even, — 
Its bridges, running to and fro, 
O'er which the white-wing'd angels go, 

Bearing the holy dead to heaven. 
She touch'd a bridge of flowers, — those feet, 
So light they did not bend the bells 
Of the celestial asphodels, 
They fell like dew upon the flowers : 
Then all the air grew strangely sweet! 
And thus came dainty Baby Bell 
Into this world of ours. 

She came, and brought delicious May. 

The swallows built beneath the eaves; 

Like sunlight, in and out the leaves 
The robins went the livelong day ; 
The lily swung its noiseless bell ; 

And o'er the porch the trembling vine 

Seem'd bursting with its veins of wine. 
How sweetly, softly, twilight fell ! 
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds 
And opening spring-tide flowers, 
When the dainty Baby Bell 

Came to this world of ours ! 

Oh, Baby, dainty Baby Bell, 
How fair she grew from day to day ! 
What woman-nature fill'd her eyes, 
What poetry within them lay ! 
Those deep and tender twilight eyes, 

So full of meaning, pure and bright 

As if she yet stood in the light 
Of those oped gates of Paradise. 
And so we loved her more and more : 
Ah, never in our hearts before 

Was love so lovely born : 
We felt we had a link between 
This real world and that unseen — 

The land beyond the morn ; 
And for the love of those dear eyes, 
For love of her whom God led forth, 
(The mother's being ceased on earth 
When Baby came from Paradise), — 
For love of Him who smote our lives 

And woke the chords of joy and pain, 
We said, Dear Christ / — our hearts bent down 

Like violets after rain. 



And now the orchards which were white 
And red with blossoms when she came, 
Were rich in autumn's mellow prime ; 
The clustered apples burnt like flame, 
The soft-cheek'd peaches blush'd and fell, 
The ivory chestnut burst its shell, 
The grapes hung purpling in the grange; 
And time wrought just as rich a change 

In little Baby Bell. 
Her lissome form more perfect grew, 

And in her features we could trace, 

In soften'd curves, her mother's face 
Her angel-nature ripen'd too. 
We thought her lovely when she came, 
But she was holy, saintly now : — 
Around her pale angelic brow 
We saw a slender ring of flame ! 
God's hand had taken away the seal 

That held the portals of her speech ; 
And oft she said a few strange words 

Whose meaning lay beyond our reach. 
She never was a child to us, 
We never held her being's key; 
We could not teach her holy things : 

She was Christ's self in purity. 
It came upon us by degrees, 
We saw its shadow ere it fell, — 
The knowledge that our God had sent 
His messenger for Baby Bell. 
We shudder'd with unlanguaged pain, 
And all our hopes were changed to fears, 
And all our thoughts ran into tears 

Like sunshine into rain. 
We cried aloud in our belief, 
"Oh, smite us gently, gently, God! 
Teach us to bend and kiss the rod, 
And perfect grow through grief." 
Ah, how we loved her, God can tell ; 
Her heart was folded deep in ours. 

Our hearts are broken, Baby Bell! 

At last he came, the messenger, 

The messenger from unseen lands : 
And what did dainty Baby Bell ? 
She only cross'd her little hands, 
She only look'd more meek and fair! 
We parted back her silken hair, 
We wove the roses round her brow, — 
White buds, the summer's drifted snow, — 
Wrapt her from head to foot in flowers 1 
And thus went dainty Baby Be!l 
Out of this world of ours ! 

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH 



86 



£ 



^ZB^JB^Z* ZB^IE. 



'* 



|ABY Bye, 

Wi Here's a fly; 
Let us watch him, you and I. 

How he crawls 

Up the walls, 

Yet he never falls ! 
I believe with six such legs 
You and I could walk on eggs. 

There he goes 

On his toes, 

Tickling baby's nose. 

Spots of red 

Dot his head ; 

Rainbows on his back are spread; 

That small speck 

Is his neck ; 

See him nod and beck. 
I can show you, if you choose, 
Where to look to find his shoes, — 

Three small pairs, 

Made of hairs ; 

These he always wears. 

Black and brown 

Is his gown ; « 

He can wear it upside down ; 

It is laced 

Round his waist ; 

I admire his taste. 
Yet though tight his clothes are made, 
He will lose them, I'm afraid, 

If to-night 

He gets sight 

Of the candle-light. 

In the sun 

Webs are spun ; 

What if he gets into one ? 

When it rains 

He complains 

On the window-panes. 
Tongue to talk have you and I ; 
God has given the little fly 

No such things, 

So he sings 

With his buzzing wings. 



He can eat 

Bread and meat ; 

There 's his mouth between his feet. 

On his back 

Is a pack 

Like a pedler's sack. 
Does the baby understand ? 
Then the fly shall kiss her hand ; 

Put a crumb 

On her thumb, 

Maybe he will come. 
Catch him ? No, 
Let him go, 
Never hurt an insect so ; 

But no doubt 

He flies out 

Just to gad about. 
Now you see his wings of silk 
Drabbled in the baby's milk ; 

Fie, oh fie, 

Foolish fly! 

How will he get dry ? 
All wet flies 
Twist their thighs; 
Thus they wipe their heads and eyes; 

Cats you know 

Wash just so. 

Then their whiskers grow. 
Flies have hairs too short to comb, 
So they fly bareheaded home ; 

But the gnat 

Wears a hat, 

Do you believe that ? 
Flies can see 
More than we, 
So how bright their eyes must be ! 

Little fly, 

Ope your eye ; 

Spiders are near by. 
For a secret I can tell, 
Spiders never use flies well. 

Then away, 

Do not stay, 

Little fly, good-day. 

THEODORE TILTON. 



87 




The Adopted Child. 




«HY would'st thou leave me, oh gentle 

$ child, 

Thy home on the mountain is bleak and wild — 
A straw-roofed cabin, with lowly wall ; 
Mine is a fair and pillared hall, 
Where many an image of marble gleams, 
And the sunshine of pictures for ever streams." 

" Oh ! green is the turf where my brothers 

play, 
Through the long bright hours of the sum- 
mer's day ; 
They find the red cup-moss where they climb, 
And they chase the bee o'er the scented thyme, 
And the rocks where the heath-flower blooms 

they know ; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh let me go." 

" Content thee, boy ! in my bower to dwell 
Here are sweet sounds which thou lovest well : 
Flutes on the air in the stilly noon, 
Harps which the wandering breezes tune, 
And the silvery wood-note of many a bird 
Whose voice was ne'er in thy mountain heard." 

" Oh ! my mother sings at the twilight's fall, 
A song of the hills far more sweet than all ; 
She sings it under our own green tree 
To the babe half slumbering on her knee ; 
I dreamt last night of that music low — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

"Thy mother is gone from her cares to rest; 
She hath taken the babe on her quiet breast; 
Thou would'st meet her footstep, my boy, no 

more, 
Nor hear her song at the cabin door. 
Come thou with me to the vineyard nigh, 
And we'll pluck the grapes of the richest dye." 

"Is my mother gone from her home away? — 
But I know that my brothers are there at 

play— 
I know they are gathering the fox-glove's bell, 
Or the long fern leaves by the sparkling well; 



Or they launch their boats where the brig' t 

streams flow — 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

"Fair child, thy brothers are wanderers now; 
They sport no more on the mountain's brow ; 
They have left the fern by the spring's green 

side, 
And the streams where the fairy barks were 

tied. 
Be thou at peace in thy brighter lot, 
For the cabin home is a lonely spot." 

Are they gone, all gone from the the sunny 

hill?— 
But the bird and the blue-fly rove o'er it still ; 
And the red-deer bound in their gladness free, 
And the heath is bent by the singing bee, 
And the waters leap, and the fresh winds blow; 
Lady, kind lady ! oh, let me go." 

FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS. 



TO J. H 



FOUR YEARS OLD : — A NURSERY SONG 



. . . . Pien d'amori, 
Pien di canti, e pien di flori. 



Fkugoni. 



Full of little loves of ours, 

Full of songs, and full of flowers. 



AH, little ranting Johnny, 
For ever blithe and bonny, 
And singing nonn} r , nonny, 
With hat just thrown upon ye ; 
Or whistling like the thrushes, 
With a voice in silver gushes; 
Or twisting random posies 
With daisies, weeds, and roses; 
And strutting in and out so, 
Or dancing all about so ; 



TO J. H. 



With cock-up nose so lightsome, 

And sidelong eyes so brightsome, 

And cheeks as ripe as apples, 

And head as rough as Dapple's, 

And arms as sunny shining 

As if their veins they 'd wine in, 

And mouth that smiles so truly 

Heaven seems to have made it newly — 

It breaks into such sweetness 

With merry-lipped completeness 

Ah Jack, ah Gianni mio, 

As blithe as Laughing Trio ! ■ 

— Sir Richard, too, you rattler, 

So christened from the Tattler, 

My Bacchus in his glory, 

My little Cor-di-fiori, 

My tricksome Puck, my Robin, 

Who in and out come bobbing, 

As full of feints and frolics as 

That fibbing rogue Autolycus, 

And play the graceless robber on 

Your grave-eyed brother Oberon, — 

Ah Dick, ah Dolce-riso, 

How can you, can you be so? 

One cannot turn a minute, 

But mischief — there you 're in it : 

A-getting at my books, John, 

With mighty bustling looks, John, 

Or poking at the roses, 

In midst of which your nose is; 

Or climbing on a table, 

No matter how unstable, 

And turning up your quaint eye 

And half-shut teeth, with "May n't I?" 

Or else you 're off at play, John, 

Just as you 'd be all day, John, 

With hat or not, as happens ; 

And there you dance, and clap hands, 

Or on the grass go rolling, 

Or plucking flowers, or bowling, 

And getting me expenses 

With losing balls o'er fences ; 

Or, as the constant trade is, 

Are fondled by the ladies 




With "What a young rogue this is! v 
Reforming him with kisses ; 
Till suddenly you cry out, 
As if you had an eye out, 
So desperately fearful, 
The sound is really fearful; 
When, lo ! directly after, 
It bubbles into laughter. 

Ah, rogue ! and do you know, John, 
Why, 'tis we love you so, John? 
And how it is they let ye 
Do what you like, and pet ye, 
Though all who look upon ye, 
Exclaim, "Ah, Johnny, Johnny !" 
It is because you please 'em 
Still more, John, than you teaze 'em; 
Because, too, when not present, 
The thought of you is pleasant; 
Because, though such an elf, John, 
They think that if yourself, John, 
Had something to condemn, too, 
You'd be as kind to them, too ; 
In short, because you're very 
Good-tempered, Jack, and merry; 
And are as quick at giving 
As easy at receiving ; 
And in the midst of pleasure 
Are certain to find leisure 
To think, my boy, of ours, 
And bring us heaps of flowers. 

But see, the sun shines brightly, 
Come, put your hat on rightly, 
And we'll among the bushes, 
And hear your friends, the thrushes ; 
And see what flowers the weather 
Has rendered fit to gather ; 
And, when we home must jog, you 
Shall ride my back, you rogue you — 
Your hat adorned with fine leaves, 
Horse-chestnut, oak, and vine-leaves; 
And so, with green o'erhead, John, 
Shall whistle home to bed, John. 

LEIGH HUNT. 



CRADLE SONG. 




FROM THE GERMAN. 

u ^go Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
^lilI|§HY father's watching the sheep, 

Thy mother's shaking the dream- 
land tree, 

And down drops a little dream for thee. 
Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
The large stars are the sheep, 
The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 
The bright moon is the shepherdess. 

Sleep, baby, sleep. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 
And cry not like a sheep, 
Else the sheep-dog will bark and whine, 
And bite this naughty child of mine. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ' 
The Saviour loves his sheep ; 
He is the Lamb of God on high 
Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep . 

Sleep, baby, sleep ' 
Away to tend the sheep, 
Away thou sheep-dog fierce and wild, 
And do not harm my sleeping child ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

ELIZABETH PRENTISS. 



THE BIRD CATCHER. 



q^g-Q -3/--0 




GENTLY, gently yet, young 
stranger, 
Light of heart and light of 
heel ! 
Ere the bird perceives its danger, 

On it slyly steal. 
Silence ! — ah ! your scheme is failing — 

No ; pursue your pretty prey ; 
See, your shadow on the paling 
Startles it away. 

Caution ! now you're nearer creeping ; 

Nearer yet — how still it seems ! 
Sure, the winged creature's sleeping, 

Wrapt in forest dreams ! 



Golden sights that bird is seeing. 

Nest of green, or mossy bough ; 
Not a thought it hath of fleeing ; 

Yes, you'll catch it now. 

How your eyes begin to twinkle ! 

Silence, and you'll scarcely fail. 
Now stoop down, and softly sprinkle 

Salt upon its tail. 
Yes, you have it in your tether, 

Never more to skim the skies ; 
Lodge the salt on that long feather — 

Ha ! it flies ! it flies ! 

Hear it — hark ! among the bushes, 

Laughing at your idle lures ! 
Boy, the self-same feeling gushes 

Through my heart and yours. 
Baffled sportsman, childish Mentor, 

How have I been — hapless fault ! 
Led, like you, my hopes to centre 

On a grain of salt ! 

On what captures I've been counting, 
Stooping here, and creeping there, 

All to see my bright hope mounting 
High into the air ! 

Thus have children of all ages, 
Seeing bliss before them fly, 

Found their hearts but empty cages, 
And their hopes on high ! 

LAMAN BLANCHARD. 

€ OLDEN slumbers kiss your eyes, 
Smiles awake you when you rise. 
Sleep, pretty wantons; do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby: 
Bock them, rock them, lullaby. 

Care is heavy, therefore sleep you ; 
You are care, and care must keep you. 
Sleep, pretty wantons ; do not cry, 
And I will sing a lullaby : 
Rock them, rock them, lullaby. 

THOMAS DEKKER. 



90 



DANAE. 



Dpr^e. 



'JjttHILST, around her lone ark sweeping, 
3pp Wailed the winds and waters wild, 
Her young cheeks all wan with weeping. 

Danae clasped her sleeping child . 
And •'Alas." i cried she.) "my dearest. 

What deep wrongs, what woes, are mine ! 
But nor wrongs nor woes thou fearest, 

In that sinless rest of thine. 
Faint the moonbeams break above thee, 

And, within here, all is gloom ; 
But fast wrapt in arms that love thee, 

Little reck'st thou of our doom. 
Not the rude spray round thee flying, 

Has e'en damped thy clustering hair, — 
On thy purple mantlet lying, 

mine Innocent, my Fair ! 
Yet. to thee were sorrow sorrow, 

Thou would'st lend thy little ear, 
And this heart of thine might borrow 

Haply yet a moment's cheer. 
But no ; slumber on, Babe, slumber ; 

Slumber, Ocean-waves ; and you. 
My dark troubles, without number, — 

Oh, that ye would slumber too ! 
Though with wrongs they've brimmed my 
chalice, 

Grant Jove, that, in future years, 
This boy may defeat their malice, 

And avenge his mother's tears!" 



SIM ox IDES. 
Translation of william peter. 



(Greek. | 



MY SERMON. 



I HAVE been siting here for an hour, 
noting clown some thoughts for the 
sermon which I hope to write during 
this week, and to preach nest Sunday. I 
have not been able to think very con- 
nectedly, indeed ; for two little feet have 
been pattering round me, two little hands 
pulling at me occasionally, and a little 
voice entreating that I should come and 
have a race upon the green. Of course I 
went ; for like most men who are not 
very great or very bad, I have learned, 
for the sake of the little owner of the 
hands and the voice, to love every little 
child. My sermon will be the better for 
these interruptions. I do not mean to 
say it will be absolutely good, though it 
will be as good as I can make it; but it 
will be better for these races with my 
little girl. 

BOYD. 



/"(flsS- 



eMTT!B flKAl^f, 




IwET every sound be dead; . 
Baby sleeps. 
The Emperor softly tread ! 
Baby sleeps. 
| Let Mozart's music stop ! 
Let Phidia's chisel drop ! 

Baby sleeps. 
Demosthenes be dumb ! 
Our tyrant's hour has come ! 
Baby sleeps. 
91 



THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW. 




THE RIDE IN A WHEEL-BARROW. 

— * — 

5 HO does not remember the 
keen relish of the rapid run 
in the wheelbarrow of 
early youth, bumping and 
rolling about, and finally turning a corner 
at full speed and upsetting ? Who does 
not remember the delight of the little 
springless carriage that threatened to dis- 
locate and grind down the bones ? Luxury 
destroys real enjoyment. There is more 
real enjoyment in riding in a wheelbarrow 
than in driving in a carriage-and-four. 



ofoo 



Oh, fortunate baby ! Sunday lass ! 
The veins of gold through the rocks you'll 
see; 
And when o'er the shining sands you pass, 
You can tell where the hidden springs may 
be. 

And never a fiend or an airy sprite 
May thwart or hinder you all your days, 

Whenever it chances, in mirk midnight, 
The lids of your marvelous eyes you raise. 

You may see, while your heart is pure and 
true, 

The angels that visit this lower sphere, 
Drop down the firmament, two and two, 

Their errands of mercy to work down here. 

This is the dower of a Sunday child; 

What do you think of it, little brown head, 
Winking and blinking your eyes so mild, 

Down in the depths of your snowy bed ? 

ALICE WILLIAMS. 



She Sunday Baby. 



THE BLIND BOY. 



;OU wonderful little Sunday child ! 

Half of your fortune scarce you know, 
Although you have blinked and winked and 
smiled 
Full seven and twenty days below. 

"The bairn that was born on Sabbath day," 

So say the old wives over their glass — 
" Is bonny and healthy, and wise and gay! " 
What do you think of that, my lass? 

Health and wisdom, and beauty and mirth! 
And (as if that were not enough for a 
dower), 
Because of the holy day of your birth, 
Abroad you may walk in the gloaming's 
hour. 

When we poor bodies, With backward look, 
Shiver and quiver and quake with fear 

Of fiend and fairy, and kelpie and spook, 
Never a thought need you take, my dear — 

For "Sunday's child" may go where it please, 
Sunday's child shall be free from harm ! 

Right down through the mountain side it sees 
The mines unopened where jewels swarm ! 



o 



H, say what is that thing called Light, 
Which I must ne'er enjoy ? 

What are the blessings of the sight, 
Oh, tell your poor blind boy ! 



You talk of wondrous things you see, 
You say the sun shines bright ; 

I feel him warm, but how can he 
Or make it day or night '? 

My day or night myself I make 

Whene'er I sleep or play; 
And could I ever keep awake 

With me 'twere always day. 

With heavy sighs I often hear 
You mourn my hapless woe; 

But sure with patience I can bear 
A loss I ne'er can know. 

Then let not what I cannot have 

My cheer of mind destroy ; 
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king, 
Although a poor blind boy. 

COLLEY CIBBER. 



92 



WHEN WE WERE CHILDREN. 



HAVE you forgotten, little wife, 
Our far-off childhood's golden life? 
Our splendid castles on the sands, 
The boat I made with my own hands, 



The dreams we had ! the songs we made ! 
The sunshine! and the woven shade! 
The tears of many a sad good-bye, 
When we were parted, you and I ! 




The rain that caught us in the wood, 
The cakes we had when we were good, 
The doll I broke and made you cry, 
When we were children, you and I! 

Have you forgotten, little wife, 

The dawning of that other life ? 

The strange new light the whole world wore, 

When life love's perfect blossom bore! 



Ah, nay! your loving heart, I know, 

Remembers still the long-ago ; 

It is the light of childhood's days 

That shines through all your winning ways. 

God grant we ne'er forget our youth, 
Its innocence, and faith, and truth, 
The smiles, the tears, and hopes gone by. 
When Ave were children, you and I. 

FREDERICK E. WEATHERLY. 



93 



SAFE FOLDED 




D 



H, it is hard when o'er 
the face 
We scarce can see for 
weeping 
The little loving baby 
face, 
That last, still shadow 
comes creeping; 
Full hard to close the tender eyes, 
And fold the hands for sleeping. 

Yet when the world our own would claim, 
It doth not greatly grieve us; 

We calmly see as days go by, 
Our little children leave us — 

And, smiling, heed not how the swift, 
Soft-footed years bereave us. 

Oh mother hearts I count you rich 
Beyond mere earth-possessing, 

Whose little babies never grow 
Away from your caressing — 

Safe-folded in His tender arms, 
Who gives again with blessing. 

CAROLINE LESLIE. 



CHILDREN'S HOUR. 

>ETWEEN the dark and the day- 
light, 

When the night is beginning to lower, 
Comes a pause in the day's occupations, 
That is known as the Children's Hour. 

I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet, 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the broad hall stair, 



Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

A whisper, and then a silence : 
Yet I know by their merry eyes 

They are plotting and planting together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway, 
A sudden raid from the hall ! 

By three doors left unguarded 
They enter my castle wall ! 

They climb up into my turret 

O'er the arms and back of my chair : 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwine, 

Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine ! 

Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all '? 

I have you fast in my fortress, 

And will not let you depart, 
But put you"down into the dungeon. 

In the round-tower of my heart. 
And there will I keep you for ever, 

Yes, for ever and a day, 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away ! 

HENRY. WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW. 



Introduction to "Songs of Innocence. 

HlPING down the valleys wild, 

Piping songs of pleasant glee, 
On a cloud I saw a child, 
And he laughing said to me : 

" Pipe a song about a lamb ! 

So I piped with merry cheer. 
"Piper, pipe that song again ;" 

So I piped ; he wept to hear. 



94 



INTRODUCTION TO "SONGS OF INNOCENCE:' 



" Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe ; 

Sing thy songs of happy cheer !" 
So I sang the same again, 

While he wept with joy to hear. 

" Piper, sit thee down and write 
In a book, that all may read." 

So he vanish'd from my sight ; 
And I pluck'd a hollow reecl, 

And I made a rural pen, 

And I stain'd the water clear, 

And I wrote my happy songs 
Every child may joy to hear. 



WILLIAM BLAKE. 



dk(li^@ 



THE NEW COMER. 

Lancashire Dialect. 
g^ +. . .4,. ^-3 

IfjjjliHA 'rt welcome, little bonny brid, 
pfl§| But should n't ha' come just when 
tha did ; 

Toimes are bad. 
We 're short 0' pobbies for eawr Joe, 
But that, of course, tha did n't know, 

Did ta, lad? 

Aw 've often yeard mi feyther tell 
'At when aw coom i' th' world misel 

Trade wur slack ; 
An' neaw it 's hard wark pooin' throo — 
But aw munna fear thee, iv aw do 

Tha '11 go back. 

Cheer up ! these toimes '11 awter soon ; 
Aw 'm beawn to beigh another spoon — 

One for thee ; 
An', as tha 's sich a pratty face, 
Aw '11 let thee have eawr Charley's place 

On mi knee. 

Hush ! hush ! tha munno cry this way, 
But get this sope o' cinder tay 

While it 's warm ; 
Mi mother used to give it me, 
When aw wur sich a lad as thee, 

In her arm. 



Hush a babby, hush a bee — 
Oh, what a temper ! dear a me, 

Heaw tha skroikes ! 
Here 's a bit o' sugar, sithee ; 
Howd thi noise, an' then aw '11 gie thee 

Owt tha loikes. 

We 'n nobbut getten coarsish fare, 
But eawt o' this tha '11 ha' thi share, 

Never fear. 
Aw hope tha '11 never want a meal, 
But alius fill thi bally weel 

While tha 'rt here. 

And tho' we 'n childer two or three, 
We '11 make a bit 0' reawm for thee — 

Bless thee, lad ! 
Tha 'rt th' prattiest brid we han i' th' nest ; 
Come, hutch up closer to mi breast — 

Aw 'm thi dad. 



CMADLE SONl&a 

QT LEEP little baby of mine, 
^S Night and the darkness are near 
Mr But Jesus looks down 
Through the shadows that frown, 
And baby has nothing to fear. 

Shut little sleepy blue eyes ; 

Dear little head be at rest ; 

Jesus like you, 

Was a baby once too, 

And slept on his own mother's breast. 

Sleep little baby of mine 

Soft on your pillow so white ; 

Jesus is here 

To watch over you, dear, 

And nothing can harm you to-night. 

Oh little darling of mine, 

What can you know of the bliss, 

The comfort I keep, 

Awake and asleep, 

Because I am certain of this ? 



95 



d&p 



BED-TIME 



i. 

JY=HE children are going to bed 

In nurseries shaded and clean, 
And many a bright and curly head 
Is nestling the white sheets between. 

Little faces all washed white as snow, 
Are dewy with kisses to-night, 

And young lips are murmuring low 
Sweet prayers — words from consciences 
white. 

Tiny dresses and jackets and shoes 
Lie folded away till the morn, 

Like the chrysalis, no more of use 
To the gayly-striped insect new-born. 

The angel of sleep hovers near, 
And curtains the room with his wings ; 

That incense to angels is dear 
Which from the nursery altars upsprings. 

Little eyelids quite tired with play, 
Are drooping and closing like flowers, 

And restless young forms laid away, 
To sleep through the long midnight 
hours. 

In cottage and castle and hall, 

In valley, on prairie, or hill, 
The calm hush of evening doth fall, 

And life hath grown suddenly still. 

At sunset a blessing comes down, 
And peace upon all things is shed, 

For in city and village and town 
The children are going to bed. 

II. 

The children are going to bed, 
Such bed as their lives ever know, 

In alley and attic and shed, 
And cellar-ways fetid and low, 



In homes where wrangle and din 
Turn night into hideous noon, 

Where the voice of shame, sorrow, and sin 
Will break their light slumbers too soon. 

All tumbled and dirty they lie, 

No kiss on the heavy young brow, 
A tear scarcely dried in the eye, 

The flush of a blow ling'ring now. 
They sleep upon pavement or floor, 

With never a low word of prayer, 
Or gasp at the window or door 

For a breath of the life-giving air. 

Far up in the tenement high 

They sob at the falling of day, 
And angels bend down from the sky 

To hear what the poor children say. 
It may be that even in heaven 

Some bright tears of pity are shed, 
And sins of the day all forgiven 

When the children are going to bed. 

III. 

" The children are going to bed ! " 

Hushed voices speak gently the word : 
All muffled the mother's light tread, 

No merry " Good-evening " is heard, 
No breath stirs the ringlets of gold, 

No dimple the passionless cheek, 
No tossing limbs ruffle a fold 

Laid over the hands folded meek. 

Oh ! quiet the cradle, though small, 

Where the children are laid to their rest ; 
There is room and to spare for them all, 

In Earth's warm and welcoming breast. 
What matter if castle or cot 

Once held the fair image of snow ? 
All alike are they now in their lot, 

As they nestle the flowers below. 
96 



BED-TIME. 



Then cover them- up from our sight, 

Spread the freshest green turf o'er their 
head, 
Bid them one more caressing " good- 
night.'' 

The children are going to bed. 
The children are folded in dreams, 

Bright angels have sung them to sleep, 
And stars with then - great solemn beams, 

Loving watch o'er their tired forms keep. 

Xo waking to sorrow or gloom, 

Xo hunger, no shame, and no sin, 
Oh ! faithful and loving the tomb 

That safe from life's ills shuts them in. 
The sweet name of Jesus our Lord 

Once more o'er their jdUIows be said, 
And praise, that, secure in His "Word, 

The children are going to bed. 

M . E . W I X S L O W . 



CHOOSING A NAME. 



|Cy?EXD down thy winged Angel, God ! 
jfejr; Amidst this night so wild, 
And bid him come where now we watch, 
And breathe upon our child. 

She lies upon her pillow, pale, 
And moans within her sleep, 

Or wakeneth with a patient smile, 
And striveth not to weep ! 

How gentle and how good a child 

She is, we know too well, 
And dearer to her parents' hearts 

Than our weak words can tell. 

We love — we watch throughout the night, 

To aid, when need may be ; 
We hope — and have despair'd at times, 

But now we turn to Thee. 

Send down thy sweet-soul'd Angel, God ! 

Amidst the darkness wild, 
And bid him soothe our souls to-night, 

And heal our gentle child ! 

BARRY CORNWALL. 



(HAVE got a new-born sister ; 
I was nigh the first that kissed her. 
When the nursing woman brought 
her 

To papa, his infant daughter, 
How papa's dear eyes did glisten ! — 
She will shortly be to christen ; 
And papa has made the offer, 
I shall have the naming of her. 

Now I wonder what would please her, — 

Charlotte, Julia, or Louisa ? 

Ann and Mary, they're too common ; 

Joan's too formal for a woman ; 

Jane's a prettier name beside ; 

But we had a Jane that died. 

They would say, if 't was Rebecca, 

That she was a little Quaker. 

Edith's pretty, but that looks 

Better in old English books ; 

Ellen's left off long ago ; 

Blanche is out of fashion now. 

None that I have named as yet 

Are so good as Margaret. 

Emily is neat and fine ; 

What do you think of Caroline ? 

How I'm puzzled and perplexed 

What to choose or think of next ! 

I am in a little fever 

Lest the name that I should give her 

Should disgrace her or defame her ; — 

I will leave papa to name her. 



MARY LAM 



--*- 



0]S TJIE PICTURE OF fl\ IXEfl]S>F PLflY- 
1X6 ]5E^I^ n PRECIPICE. 



WHILE on the cliff with calm delight she 
kneels, 
And the blue vales a thousand joys recall, 
See. to the last, last verge her infant steals ! 

Oh fly— yet stir not. speak not, lest it fall. — 
Far better taught, she lays her bosom bare, 
And the fond boy springs back to nestle there. 
leonidas of Alexandria. (Greek.j 
Translation of s A M U E L ROGERS. 



97 



15+ 



3 < S 



To The Cuckoo. 




beauteous stranger of the grove, 

Thou messenger of Spring ! 
Now heaven repairs thy rural seat, 

And woods thy welcome sing. 

What time the daisy decks the green, 

Thy certain voice we hear ; 
Hast thou a star to guide thy way, 

Or mark the rolling year ? 

Delightful visitant ! with thee 

I hail the time of flowers, 
And hear the sound of music sweet 

From birds among the bowers. 

The school-boy, wandering through the wood 

To pull the primrose gay, 
Starts, the new voice of Spring to hear, 

And imitates thy lay. 

What time the pea puts on the bloom, 

Thou fliest thy vocal vale, 
An annual guest in other lands, 

Another Spring to hail. 

Sweet bird, thy bower is ever green, 

Thy sky is ever clear ; 
Thou hast no sorrow in thy song, 

No Winter in thy year ! 

Oh, could I fly, I'd fly with thee ! 

We'd make, with joyful wing, 
Our annual visit o'er the globe, 

Companions of the Spring ! 

JOHN LOGAN. 



■*+ 



WS- 



-*-9- 



98 



Sweet Baby, Sleep. 




fWEET baby, sleep! what ails 
dear? 

What ails my darling, thus to cry ? 
Be still, my child, and lend thine ear, 

To hear me sing thy lullaby. 
My pretty lamb, forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 



my 



Thou blessed soul, what canst thou fear ? 

What thing to thee can mischief do ? 
Thy God is now thy Father dear, 

His holy Spouse thy mother too. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Though thy conception was in sin, 
A sacred bathing thou hast had ; 

And though thy birth unclean hath been, 
A blameless babe thou now art made. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my dear ; sweet baby, sleep. 

While thus thy lullaby I sing, 

For thee great blessings ripening be ; 

Thine eldest brother is a King, 

And hath a kingdom bought for thee. 

Sweet baby, then, forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Sweet baby, sleep, and nothing fear ; 

For whosoever thee offends 
By thy Protector threaten'd are, 

And God and angels are thy friends. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

When God with us was dwelling here, 
In little babes He took delight ; 

Such innocents as thou, my dear, 
Are ever precious in His sight. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 



A little infant once was He ; 

And strength in weakness then was laid 
Upon His virgin mother's knee, 

That power to thee might be convey'd. 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

In this thy frailty and thy need 

He friends and helpers doth prepare, 

Which thee shall cherish, clothe, and feed, 
For of thy weal they tender are. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be till, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The King of kings, when He was born, 
Had not so much for outward ease ; 

By Him such dressings were not worn, 
Nor such-like swaddling-clothes as these. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

Within a manger lodged thy Lord, 
Where oxen lay and asses fed : 

Warm rooms we do to thee afford, 
An easy cradle or a bed. 

Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

The wants that He did then sustain 
Have purchased wealth my babe, for 
thee ; 

And by His torments and His pain 
Thy rest and ease secured be. 

My baby, then forbear to weep ; 

Be still, my babe ; sweet baby sleep. 

Thou hast, yet more to perfect this, 

A promise and an earnest got 
Of gaining everlasting bliss, 

Though thou, my babe, perceiv'st it not: 
Sweet baby, then forbear to weep ; 
Be still, my babe ; sweet baby, sleep. 

GEORGE WITHER. 



99 




., dfe 



'/T> 



That Little Hat." II 




FIND it in the garden path, 

Its little crown half full 
Of white flowers ; where's the 
rogue 
Who dared my roses pull? 
I find it on the roadside there, 

The flowers tossed away, 
And in the crown, packed carefully, 
A load of stones and clay. 

I find it in the daisied field, 

Or hidden in the clover, 
Inspected by the wandering bees, 

And crawled by insects over. 
I find it on the old barn floor, 

Or in the manger resting, 
Or swinging from the beams above, 

Where cooing doves are nesting. 

I find it 'neath my busy feet 

Upon the kitchen floor, 
Or lying midway up the stairs, 

Or by my chamber door. 
I find it in, I find it out, 

'Neath table, lounge, or chair, 
The little shabby brimless thing, 

I find it everywhere 

But on the curly, golden pate, 

For which alone 'twas meant, 
That little restless, sunny head, 

On mischief always bent. 
Oh ! baby boy, this problem solve, 

And tell me, darling, whether 
Your roguish pate and this old hat 

Were ever seen together ? 



^r 



LITTLE roll of flannel fine; 

A thrill in mother's heart — " 'tis 

mine;" 
A little head of golden hair ; 
A lifted eye to heaven in prayer. 



MARYD. BRINE. 



A smile that ripples to a laugh ; 
A tear with grief in its behalf; 
A pushing of a slender chair ; 
A climbing of the oaken stair; 

A stride o'er everything at hand; 
A horse at Santa Claus' command; 
A little cart all painted red ; 
A train of cars at full steam sped ; 

A pair of "pants" that reach the knee; 
A strut like midshipman from sea ; 
A pair of boots with tops of red ; 
A knife, a ball, a gallant sled ; 

A pocket full of everything; 

A "shooter," skates, and yards of string; 

A voting fractions "such a bore;" 

A holiday rejoicing o'er; 

A stretching down the pantaloon ; 
A swim — a wrestling match at noon; 
A little Latin now, and Greek ; 
A letter home just once a week; 

A roaming through collegiate halls; 
A summer evening spent in calls ; 
A rapture o'er a sunny face ; 
A bow, a ring, some bridal lace ; 

A kneeling at the chancel rail ; 
A trembling bride, a bridegroom pale ■ 
A leap into the world's wide sea; 
My boy was gone — ah me ! ah me ! 

FRANCES A. M. JOHNSON. 



100 



^/i<S>-i\^- 




Hi If I Could Keep Her So. 

1UST a little baby lying in my arms, 

Would that I could keep you with your baby charms; 
Helpless, clinging fingers ; downy, golden hair, 
Where the sunshine lingers, caught from otherwhere ; 
Blue eyes asking questions, lips that cannot speak, 
Roly-poly shoulders, dimple in your cheek ; 
Dainty little blossom, in a world of woe ; 
Thus I fain would keep you, for I love you so. 



Roguish little damsel, scarcely six years old ; 
Feet that never weary, hair of deeper gold ; 
Restless, busy fingers, all the time at play, 
Tongue that never ceases talking all the day, 
Blue eyes learning wonders of the world about, 
Have come to tell you them — what an eager shout ! 
Winsome little damsel, all the neighbors know ; 
Thus I long to keep you, for I love you so. 

Sober little school-girl with your strap of books, 
And such grave importance in your puzzled looks, 
Solving weary problems, poring over sums, 
Yet with tooth for sponge cake and for sugar plums, 
Reading books of romance in your bed at uight, 
Waking up to study in the morning light ; 
Anxious as to ribbons, deft to tie a bow, 
Full of contradictions — I would keep you so. 



\ 




Sweet and thoughtful maiden, sitting by my side, 
All the world's before, and the world is wide ; 
Hearts are there for winning, hearts are there to break, 
Has your own, shy maiden, just begun to wake? 
Is that rose of dawning, glowing on your cheek. 
Telling us in blushes what you will not speak ? 
Shy and tender maiden, I would fain forego 
All the golden future, just to keep you so. 

All the listening angels saw that she was fair, 
Ripe for rare unfolding in the upper air; 
Now the rose of dawning turns to lily white, 
And the close-shut eyelids veil the eyes from sight. 
All the past I summon as I kiss her brow — 
Babe, and child, and maiden, all are with me now, 
O ! my heart is breaking ; but God's love I know — 
Safe among the angels, He will keep her so. 



LOUISE C . MOULTOS. 



"^ 



101 



WILLIE WINKIE. 



^jjMiMi& ^$Mvn$iie>. 



WEE Willie Winkle- rins through the 
town, 
Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht gown, 
Tirlin' at the window, cryin' at the lock, 
"Are the weans in their bed? — for it's now ten 
o'clock." 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! are ye comin' ben ? 
The cat's singin' gay thrums to the sleepin' 

hen, 
The doug's speldered on the floor, and disna 

gie a cheep ; 
But here's a waukrife laddie that winna fa' 

asleep. 

Onything but sleep, ye rogue ! — glowerin' like 

the moon, 
Rattlin' in an aim jug with an aim spoon, 
Rumblin', tumblin' roun' about, crawin like 

a cock, 
Skirlin' like a kenna-what — wauknin' sleepin' 

folk. 

Hey, Willie Winkie ! the wean's in a creel ! 
Waumblin' aff a bodie's knee like a vera eel, 
Ruggin' at the cat's lug, and ravellin' a' her 

thrumse ; 
Hey, Willie Winkie ! — See, there he comes ! 

Weary is the mither that has a storie wean, 
A wee stumpie stoussie, that canna rin his 

lane, 
That has a battle aye wi' sleep before he'll 

close an ee ; 
But a kiss frae aft his rosy lips gies strength 

anew to me. 

WILLIAM MILLER. 



N 



THE BABIE. 
+ 

AE shoon to hide her tiny taes, 
Nae stockin' on her feet ; 

Her supple ankles white as snaw, 
Or early blossoms sweet. 



Her simple dress o' sprinkled pink, 
Her double, dimplit chin, 

Her puckered lips and balmy mou' 
With nae an tooth within. 



Her een sae like her mother's een, 
Twa gentle, liquid things ; 

Her face is like an angel's face: 
We're glad she has nae wings. 

She is the buddin' o' our love, 

A giftie God gied us : 
We maun na have the gift owre wee. 

'Twad be na blessin' thus. 

We still maun lo'e the Giver mair, 
An' see Him in the given ; 

An* sae she'll lead us up to Him, 
Our babie straight frae heaven. 



J. E. RANKIN. 



+. & — ^=^-t- 





I E always frank and open with 
your children. Make them 
trust you and tell you all their 
secrets. Make them feel at ease with you, 
and make free with them. There is no 
such good plaything for grown-up chil- 
dren like you and me as weans, wee ones. 
It is wonderful what you can get them to 
do with a little coaxing and fun. You 
all know this as well as I do, and you 
will practice it every day in your own 
families. There is a pleasant little story 
out of an old book : — "A gentleman 
having led a company of children beyond 
their usual journey, they began to be 
weary, and all cried to him to carry them 
on his back, but because of their multi- 
tude he could not do that. 'But,' says 
he, l I'll get horses for us all ;' then cut- 
ting little wands out of the hedges as 
ponies, and a great stake as a charger for 
himself, this put mettle into their little 
legs, and they rode cheerily home." So 
much for a bit of ingenious fun. 



DR . BROWN. 



102 



DEATH OF A BABE. 







& 



£l 



She had seen 
All of earth's year except the winter's snows, 
Spring, summer, autumn, like sweet dreams, had smiled 
On her. Eva — or living — was her name ; 
A bud of life folded in leaves and love ; 
The dewy morning star of summer days; 
The golden lamps of happy fire-side hours ; 
The little ewe-lamb nestling by our side ; 
The dove whose cooing echoed in our hearts ; 
The sweetest chord upon our harp of praise : 
The quiet spring the rivulet of joy; 
The pearl among His gifts who gave us all; 
On whom not we alone, but all who look'd, 
Gazing would breath the involuntary words, 
"God bless thee, Eva — God be bless'd for thee." 
Alas, clouds gather'd quickly, and the storm 
Fell without warning on our tender bud, 
Scattering its leaflets; and the star was drench'd 
Tn tears; the lamp burnt dimly unawares 
The little lamb was faint ; the weary dove 
Cower'd its young head beneath its drooping wing ; 
The chord was loosen'd on our harp ; the fount 
Was troubled, and the rill ran nearly dry ; 
And in our souls we heard our Father saying, 
"Will ye return the gift?'' The Voice was low — 
The answer lower btill — " Thy will be done." 
And now where we had often pictured her, 
I saw her one of the beatified ; 
Eva, our blossom, ours forever now, 
Unfolding in the atmosphere of love : 
The star that set upon our earthly home 
Had risen in glory, and in purer skies 
Was shining; and the lamp we sorely miss'd, 
Shed its soft radiance in a better home ; 
Our lamb was pasturing in heavenly meads ; 
Our dove had settled on the trees of life ; 
Another chord was ringing with delight, 
Another spring of rapture was unseal'd, 
In Paradise ; our treasure was with God ; 
The gift in the great Giver's strong right hand ; 
And none who look'd on her could choose but say, 
" Eva, sweet angel, God be bless'd for thee." 



E. H. BICKERSTETH. 



103 




PRAYERS OF CHILDREN. 




IN the quiet nursery chambers, — 
Snowy pillows yet unpressed, — 
See the forms of little children 
Kneeling, white-robed, for their rest. 
All in quiet nursery chambers, 

While the dusky shadows creep, 
Hear the voices of the children ; 
"Now I lay me down to sleep." 

In the meadow and the mountain 

Calmly shine the Winter stars, 
But across the glistening lowlands 

Stand the moonlight's silver bars. 
In the silence and the darkness, 

Darkness growing still more deep, 
Listen to the little children, 

Praying God their souls to keep. 

" If we die " — so pray the children, 

And the mother's head droops low, 
One from out her fold is sleeping 

Deep beneath the winter's snow — 
" Take our souls ; " — and past the casement 

Flits a gleam of crystal light, 
Like the trailing of his garments, 

Walking evermore in white. 

Little souls that stand expectant, 

Listening at the gates of life, 
Hearing, far away, the murmur 

Gf the tumult and the strife, 
We who fight beneath those banners, 

Meeting ranks of foemen there, 
Find a deeper, broader meaning 

In your simple vesper prayer. 

When your hand shall grasp this standard 
Which to-day you watch from far, 

When your deeds shall shape the conflict 
In this universal war : 

Pray to Him, the God of battles, 
Whose strong eyes can never sleep, 



In the warring of temptation, 
Firm and true your souls to keep. 

When the combat ends, and slowly 

Clears the smoke from out the skies ; 
When, far down the purple distance, 

All the noise of battle dies ; 
When the last night's solemn shadow 

Settles down on you and me, 
May the love that never faileth 

Take our souls eternally ! 



-*#&%- 



°i& CHILD'S M00D> 



WANT that rose the wind took yesterday, 

I want it more than this : 
It had no thorn — it was the best that grew, 

I want my last night's kiss. 

I want that butterfly with spotted wings 

That brushed across my hand, 
Last night, between the sunset and the dew, 

It came from fairy-land. 

It would have stayed, I guess, it wavered so, 

Where all those pansies bloom : 
They ga\ e it wings to get away from me, 

I lost it in the gloom. 

And yesterday the bees on all the heads 

Of clover swting so low, 
I saw them take their honey; but to-day 

They only sting and go. 

That star that always comes before the moon, 
Dropped out of heaven last night ; 

I hunted where I saw it fall — and found 
A worm with yellow light. 

I want the sun to go, and let the dark 

Hide everything away. 
That was the sweetest rose in all the world 

The wind took yesterday. 

JULIET C. MARSH. 



104 




THE FORCED PRAYER. 

@fmmf> 



BABY THANKFUL. 
— •*• — 

ROAMING in the meadow, 
Little four-year-old 
Picks the starry daisies, 
With their hearts of gold; 

Fills her snowy apron, 
Fills her dimpled hands; 

Suddenly — how quiet 
In the grass she stands ! 




" Who made Powers so petty — 
Put 'em here? Did God?" 

I half heeding answer 
With a careless nod. 

Dropping all her blossoms, 

AVith uplifted head, 
Fervent face turned skyward, 

"Thank you, God !" she said. 

CAROLINE METCALK. 



105 




3/ts£^g£g\a.-p 



The Cry of the Children, 




|0 ye hear the children weeping, my 
brothers, 
Ere the sorrow comes with years ? 
They are leaning their young heads against 
their mothers, 
And that cannot stop their tears. 
The young lambs are bleating in the meadows, 
The young birds are chirping in the 
nest, 
The young fawns are playing with the shad- 
ows, 
The young flowers are blowing toward the 
west — 
But the young, young children, my brothers, 

They are weeping bitterly ! 
They are weeping in the playtime of the others, 
In the country of the free. 

Do you question the young children in their 
sorrow 
Why their tears are falling so ? 
The old man may weep for his to-morrow 

Which is lost in Long Ago ; 
The old tree is leafless in the forest, 

The old year is ending in the frost, 
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest, 

The old hope is hardest to be lost : 
But the young, young children, O my brothers, 

Do you ask them why they stand 
Weeping sore before the bosoms of their 
mothers, 
In our happy Fatherland? 

They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their looks are sad to see, 
For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses 

Down the cheeks of infancy ; 
" Your old earth," they say, " is very dreary, 
Our young feet," they say, " are very weak; 
Few paces have we taken, yet are weary — 

Our grave-rest is very far to seek : 
Ask the aged why they weep, and not the 
children, 
For the outside earth is cold, 
And we young ones stand without, in our 
bewildering, 
And the graves are for the old. 



"True," say the children, "it may happen. 

That we die before our time : 
Little Alice died last year, her grave is shapen 

Like a snowball, in the rime. 
We looked into the pit prepared to take her : 
Was no room for any work in the close clay ! 
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will 
wake her, 
Crying, ' Get up little Alice ! it is day.' 
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower, 
With your ear down, little Alice never cries ; 
Could we see her face, be sure we should not 
know her, 
For the smile has time for growing in her 
-eyes; 
And merry go her moments, lull'd and still'd 
in 
The shroud by the kirk-chime. 
It is good when it happens," say the children, 
" That we die before our time." 

Alas, alas, the children ! they are seeking 

Death in life, as best to have : 
They are binding up their hearts away from 
breaking, 
With a cerement from the grave. 
Go out, children, from the mine and from the 
, city, 

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes do; 
Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips 
pretty, 
Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them 
through ! 
But they answer, " Are your cowslips of the 
meadows 
Like our weeds a-near the mine ? 
Leave us quiet in the dark of the coal-shad- 
ows, 
From your pleasures fair and fine ! 

"For, oh," say the children, "we are weary, 

And we cannot run or leap ; 
If we cared for any meadows, it were merely 

To drop down in them and sleep. 
Our knees tremble sorely in the stooping, 

We fall upon our faces, trying to go ; 
And, underneath our heavy eyelids drooping, 
The reddest flower would look as pale as 
snow. 



106 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



For all day we drag our burden tiring 

Through the coal-dark, underground; 

Or all day we drive the wheels of iron 
In the factories, round and round. 

"For all day the wheels are droning, turning; 

Their wind comes in our faces, 
Till our hearts turn, our heads with pulses 
burning, 
And the walls turn in their places ; 
Turns the sky in the high window blank and 
reeling, 
Turns the long light that drops adown the 
wall, 
Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceil- 
ing, 
All are turning, all the day, and we with all. 
And all day the iron wheels are droning, 

And sometimes we could pray, 
' ye wheels ' (breaking out in a mad moan- 
ing) 
' Stop ! be silent for to-day ! ' " 

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other 
breathing 
For a moment, mouth to mouth ! 
Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh 
wreathing 
Of their tender human youth ! 
Let them feel that this cold metallic motion 
Is not all the life God fashions or reveals ; 
Let them prove their living souls against the 
notion 
That they live in you, or under you, 
wheels ! 
Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, 

Grinding life down from its mark; 
And the children's souls, which God is calling 
sunward, 
Spin on blindly in the dark. 

Now tell the poor young children, my 
brothers, 
To look up to Him and pray ; 
So the blessed One who blesseth all the others, 

Will bless them another day. 
They answer, " Who is God, that He should 
hear us, 
While the rushing of the iron wheels is 
stirr'd ? 
When we sob aloud, the human creatures 
near us 
Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word. 
And we hear not (for the wheels in their re- 
sounding) 



Strangers speaking at the door : 
Is it likely God, with angels singing round 
Him, 
Hears our weeping any more ? 

" Two words, indeed, of praying we remember, 

And at midnight's hour of harm, 
'Our Father,' looking upward in the chamber 

We say softly for a charm. 
We know no other words except 'Our Father,' 
And we think that, in some pause of angels' 
song, 
God may pluck them with the silence sweet to 

gather, 
And hold both within His right hand which 

is strong. 
Our Father!' If He heard us He would 
surely 
(For they call Him good and mild) 
Answer, smiling down the steep world very 
purely, 
' Come and rest with me, my child.' 
" But no ! " say the children, weeping faster, 

" He is speechless as a stone : 
And they tell us of His image is the master, 

Who commands us to work on. 
Go to ! " say the children, — " up in heaven, 
Dark, wheel-like, turning clouds are all we 
find. 
Do not mock us; grief has made us unbe- 
lieving : 
We look up for God, but tears have made 
us blind." 
Do you hear the children weeping and dis- 
proving, 
my brothers, what ye preach ? 
For God's, possible is taught by His world's 
loving, 
And the children doubt of each. 

And well may the children weep before you ! 

They are weary ere they run ; 
They have never seen the sunshine, nor the 
glory 
Which is brighter than the sun. 
They know the grief of man, without its 
wisdom ; 
They sink in man's despair, without its calm; 
Are slaves, without the liberty in Christdom, 
Are martyrs, by the pang without the palm : 
Are worn as if with age, yet unretrievingly 

The harvest of its memories cannot reap, — 
Are orphans of the earthly love and heavenly. 
Let them weep ! let them weep ! 



107 



THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN. 



They look up with their pale and sunken 
faces, 
And their look is dread to see, 
For they 'mind you of their angels in high 
places, 
With eyes turned on Deity. 
"How long," they say, "how long, cruel 
nation, 
Will you stand, to mo\e the world, on a 
child's heart, — 
Stifle down with a mailed heel its palpitation, 
And tread onward to your throne amid the 
mart ? 
Our blood splashes upward, gold-heaper, 

And your purple shows your path ! 
But the child's sob in the silence curses 
deeper 
Than the strong man in his wrath." 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



TH E LITTLE rnvni.TPi? h- 

HE walks beside his mother, 
And looks up in her face ; 
He wears a glow of boyish pride 

With such a royal grace ! 
He proudly waits upon her; 

Would shield her without fear — 
The boy who loves his mother well, 
Her little cavalier. 

To see no tears of sorrow 

Upon her loving cheek, 
To gain her sweet, approving smile, 

To hear her softly speak — 
Ah ! what in all this wide world 

Could be to him so dear ? — 
The boy who loves his mother well, 

Her little cavalier. 

Look for him in the future 

Among the good, the true : 
All blessings on the upward way 

His little feet pursue. 
Of robed and crowned and sceptered kings 

He stands the royal peer — 
The boy who loves his mother well, 

Her little cavalier. 

GE ORGE COOPER. 




CO UNTRY ^CHILDR EN. 

czz)~-' J^tfi H — i 

5 ITTLE fresh violets, 
Born in the wild wood; 
Sweetly illustrating 
Innocent childhood : 
Shy as the antelope, 
Brown as a berry, 
Free as the mountain air, 
Romping and merry. 

Blue eyes and hazel eyes 

Peep from the hedges, 
Shaded by sun-bonnets, 

Frayed at the edges ! 
Up in the apple trees, 

Careless of danger, 
Manhood in embryo, 

Stares at the stranger, 

Out in the hilly patch, 

Seeking the berries — 
Under the orchard trees, 

Feasting on cherries — 
Trampling the clover blooms, 

Down 'mong the grasses, 
No voice to hinder them, 

Dear lads and lasses ! 

No grim propriety — 

No interdiction ; 
Free as the birdlings 

From city restriction ! 
Coining the purest blood, 

Strength'ning each muscle, 
Donning health armor 

'Gainst life's coming bustle. 

Dear little innocents ! 

Born in the wildwood ; 
Oh, that all little ones 

Had such a childhood ! 
Blue skies spread over them, 

Earth's green beneath them, 
No sweeter heritage 

Could we bequeath them. 



108 




♦Bailing a Boy in the Morning.* 





' HE Connecticut editor 
who wrote the follow- 
ing, evidently knew 
what he was talking 
about : — 

Calling a boy up in 
the morning can hard- 
ly be classed under the 
head of " pastimes," especially if the boy 
is fond of exercise the day before. And 
it is a little singular that the next hardest 
thing to getting a boy out of bed is get- 
ting him into it. There is rarely a mother 
who is a success at rousing a boy. All 
mothers know this ; so do their boys. And 
yet the mother seems to go at it in the 
right way. She opens the stair-door and 
insinuatingly observes, "Johnny." There 
is no response. " Johnny." Still no re- 
sponse. Then there is a short, sharp, 
"John," followed a moment later by a 
long and emphatic "John Henry." A 
grunt from the upper regions signifies that 
an impression has been made ; and the 
mother is encouraged to add, "You'd bet- 
ter be getting down here to your breakfast, 
young man, before I come up there, an' 
give you something you'll feel." This so 
startles the young man that he immedi- 
ately goes to sleep again. And the ope- 
ration has to be repeated several times. A 
father knows nothing about this trouble. 
He merely opens his mouth as a soda- 
bottle ejects its cork, and the "John 
Henry" that cleaves the air of that stair- 
way goes into that boy like electricity, and 
pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. 
And he pops out of that bed and into 
his clothes, and down the stairs, with a 



promptness that is commendable. It is 
rarely a boy allows himself to disregard 
the paternal summons. About once a 
year is believed to be as often as is con- 
sistent with the rules of health. He saves 
his father a great many steps by his 
thoughtfulness. 



"Good-JIight 



¥E 



^&*~ 



|^OOD-NIGHT! the sun is setting, 
!p|||£ " Good-night !" the robins sing, 
And blue-eyed dolls aud blue-eyed girls 

Should soon be following. 
Come ! lay the Lady Geraldine 

Among the pillows white ; 
'T is time the little mother kissed 

Her sleepy doll good-night. 

And, "Willie, put the cart away, 

And drive into the shed 
The pony and the mooly cow ; 

'T is time to go to bed. 
For, listen ! in the lilac tree 

The robin does not sing ; 
" Good-night !" he sang, and tucked his 
head 

Beneath his weary wing. 

Soon all the world will go to rest, 

And all the sky grow dim ; 
God " giveth his beloved sleep," 

So we may trust in Him. 
The Lord is in the shadow, 

And the Lord is in the light, 
To guard His little ones from harm ; 

Good-night, dear hearts, good-night ! 



109 



<r^&S£&=&z r z- 



-HDEHTH+OF+LITTLEfflULh 



X**-***********************:**^^* ****"** 




'LOY" said Paul, "what 
is that?" "Where, dear- 
est?" "There! at the 
bottom of the bed." 
"There's nothing there 
except Papa ! " The fig- 
ure lifted up its head and 
rose, and, coming to the 
bedside, said, " My own 
boy, don't you know me ? " Paul looked 
it in the face, and thought, Was this his 
father? But the face, so altered to his 
thinking, thrilled while he gazed, as if it 
were in pain ; and, before he could reach 
out both his hands to take it between 
them and draw it toward him, the figure 
turned away quickly from the little bed, 
and went out at the door. Paul looked 
at Florence with a fluttering heart ; but 
he knew what she was going to say, and 
stopped her with his face against her lips. 
The next time he observed the figure sit- 
ting at the bottom of the bed, he called to 
it, " Don't be sorry for me, dear papa ; 
indeed, I am quite happy !" His father 
coming, and bending down to him — which 
he did quickly, and without first pausing 
by the bedside — Paul held him round the 
neck, and repeated these words to him 
several times, and very earnestly ; and 
Paul never saw him again in his room at 
any time, whether it were day or night, 
but he called out, " Don't be sorry for 
me; indeed, I am quite happy." This 
was the beginning of his always saying in 
the morning that he was a great deal 
better, and that they were to tell his fa- 
ther so. 



How many times the golden water dan- 
ced upon the wall — how many nights the 
dark, dark river rolled toward the sea in 
spite of him — Paul never counted, never 
sought to know. If their kindness, or his 
sense of it, could have increased, they were 
more kind, and he more grateful, every- 
day; but whether they were many days 
or few, appeared of little moment now to 
the gentle boy. One night he had been 
thinking of his mother and her picture 
in the drawing-room down stairs, and had 
thought she must have loved sweet Flor- 
ence better than his father did, to have 
held her in her arms when she felt that 
she was dying ; for even he, her brother, 
who had such dear love for her, could 
have no greater wish than that. The 
train of thought suggested to him to in- 
quire if he had ever seen his mother; for 
he could not remember whether they had 
told him yes or no — the river running 
very fast, and confusing his mind. "Floy, 
did I ever see mamma?" "No, darling: 
why ?" " Did I ever see any kind face, 
like mamma's, looking at me when I was 
a baby, Floy ?" he asked, increduously, 
as if he had some vision of a face before 
him. " Oh, yes, dear." " Whose, Floy?" 
" Your old nurse's, often." "And where is 
my old nurse ?" said Paul. " Is she dead, 
too? Floy, are we all dead, except 
you ?" 

There was a hurry in the room for an 
instant — longer, perhaps, but it seemed 
no more — then all was still again ; and 
Florence, with her face quite colorless, 
but smiling, held his head upon her arm. 



110 



DEATH OF LITTLE PAUL. 



Her arm trembled very much. " Show 
me that old nurse, Floy, if you please !" 
" She is not here, darling. She shall come 
to-morrow." " Thank you, Floy." 

•T* ^r »p *t* *T* "T" "f* »T» 

" And who is this ?" Is this my o-d 
nurse ?" said the child, regarding with a 
radiant smile a figure coming in. Yes, 
yes ! No other stranger would have shed 
those tears at sight of him, and called 
him her dear boy, her pretty boy, her own 
poor blighted child. No other woman 
would have stooped down by his bed, and 
taken up his wasted hand and put it to 
her lips and breast, as one who had some 
right to fondle it. No other woman 
would have so forgotten everybody there 
but him and Floy, and been so full of 
tenderness and pity. "Floy, this is a 
kind, good face !" said Paul. " I am glad 
to see it again. Don't go away old nurse. 
Stay here !" 

" Now lay me down," he said ; " and, 
Floy, come close to me and let me see 
you!" Sister and brother wound their 
arms around each other, and the golden 
light came streaming in and fell upon 
them, locked together. "How fast the 
river runs between its green banks and 
the rushes, Floy ! But it's very near the 
sea. I hear the waves ! They always 
said so." Presently he told her that the 
motion of the boat upon the stream was 
lulling him to rest. How green the banks 
were now ! how bright the flowers grow- 
ing on them ! and how tall the rushes ! Now 
the boat was out at sea, but gliding 
smoothly on ; and now there was a shore 
before them. Who stood on the bank ? 
He put his hands together, as he had been 
used to do at his prayers. He did not 
remove his arms to do it , but they saw 
him fold them so, behind her neck. 
" Mamma is like you, Floy ; I know her 
by the face ! But tell them that the print 



upon the stairs at school is not divine 
enough. The light about the head is 
shining on me as I go !" 

The golden ripple on the wall came 
back again, and nothing else stirred in the 
room. The old, old fashion ! The fashion 
that came in with our first garments, and 
will last unchanged until our race has 
run its course, and the wide firmament 
is rolled up like a scroll. The old, old 
fashion — Death ! Oh, thank God, all 
who see it, for that older fashion yet, of 
Immortality ! And look upon us, angels 
of young children, with regards not quite 
estranged when the swift river bears us 
to the ocean ! 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



SLUMBER SONG. 

UJUSHABYE, baby ! 
^^ How the hours run ! 
Now the. night is coming, 

Soon the day'll be done. 
The door of the dreamland is ajar ; 
Haste thee in, it is not far. 
Bye, baby, bye ! 

Hushabye, baby ! 

Now the day is done. 
See, the shadows gather 

And the light is gone. 
The door of dreamland open stands, 

You must haste away : 
The little stars have set their lamps, 

To guide you in your way. 
Bye, baby, bye ! 

Hushabye, baby ! 

Close your little eyes, 
Sleep is standing o'er thee, 

Waiting for her prize. 
She has sweetest dreams to give thee, 
Softest arms which will enfold thee. 
She will keep thee from all harm . 
Yield thee quickly to her charm. 

Bye, baby, bye ! 

ELLA BRANCH. 



Ill 



Ho Ago Content With itg Own Estate. 






N 




SAW the little boy, 

In thought how oft that he 
Did wish of God, to 'scape the rod, 

A tall young man to be. 

The young man eke that feels 
His bones with pains opprest, 

How he would be a rich old man, 
To live and lie at rest : 

The rich old man that sees 

His end draw on so sore, 
How he would be a boy again, 

To live so much the more. 

Whereat full oft I smiled, 

To see how all these three, 
From boy to man, and man to boy, 

Would chop and change degree. 

jp ^; Jj» iji »J» »p 5jc 

Whereat I sighed, and said, 

Farewell my wonted joy, 
Truss "up thy pack, and trudge from me, 

To every little boy ; 

And tell them thus from me, 

Their time most happy is, 
If to their time they reason had, 

To know the truth of this. 

EARL OF SURREY. 



-*"e) 




sHILE yet the Spring is young, while earth unbinds 
Her frozen bosom to the western winds ; 
While mountain snow dissolve against the Sun, 
And streams, yet new, from precipices run; 
E'en in this early dawning of the year, 
Produce the plough and yoke the sturdy steer. 

112 



VIRGIL. 





jHEN first thou earnest, 
gentle, shy and fond, 
My eldest born, first hope, 
and dearest treasure, 
My heart received thee with a joy beyond 
All that it yet had felt of earthly 
pleasure ; 
Nor thought that any love again might be 
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee. 

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy 
years, 
And natural piety that leaned to heaven; 
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears, 
Yet patient to rebuke when justly given; 
Obedient — easy to be reconciled — 
And meekly cheerful ; such wert thou, my 
child ! 

Not willing to be left — still by my side, 
Haunting my walks, while summer day 
was dying ; 
Nor leaving in thy turn, but pleased to glide 
Through the dark room where I was 
sadly lying ; 
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, 
Watch the dim eye, and kiss the fevered 
cheek. 

O boy ! of such as thou are oftenest made 
Earth's fragile idols ; like a tender flower, 

No strength in all thy freshness, prone to 
fade, 
And bending weakly to the thunder- 
shower ; 

Still, round the loved, thy heart found 
force to bind, 

And clung, like woodbine shaken in the 
wind ! 



Then thou, my merry love — bold in thy 
glee, 
Under the bough, or by the firelight 
dancing, 
With thy sweet temper, and thy spirit free, 
Didst come, as restless as a bird's wing 
glancing, 
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth, 
Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened 
earth ! 

Thine was the shout, the song, the burst 

o f joy, 
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip 

resoundeth ; 
Thine was the eager spirit naught could 

cloy, 
And the glad heart from which all grief 

reboundeth ; 
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply 
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue 

eye. 

And thine was many an art to win and bless, 
The cold and stern to joy and fondness 
warming ; 
The coaxing smile, the frequent soft caress, 
The earnest, tearful prayer all wrath 
disarming ! 
Again my heart a new affection found, 
But thought that love with thee had 
reached its bound. 

At length thou earnest — thou, the last 
and least, 
Nick-named " the Emperor " by thy 



113 



laughing brothers— 



THE MOTHER'S HEART. 



Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, 
And thou didst seek to rule and sway 
the others — 
Mingling with every playful infant wile 
A mimic majesty that made us smile. 

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou ! 
An eye of resolute and successful 

scheming ! 
Fair shoulders, curling lips and dauntless 

brow — 
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's 

dreaming ; 
And proud the lifting of thy stately head 
And the firm bearing of thy conscious, 

tread. 

Different from both ! yet each succeeding 
claim 
I, that all other love had been for- 
swearing, 
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same ; 
Nor injured either by this love's com- 
paring 
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call — 
But in the mother's heart found room for 



TO GEORGE. 



all! 



CAROLINE NORTON. 



-+H *— -V4- 



@p?iLxD^erj. 

— *— 

CHILDREN are what the mothers are. 
No fondest father's fondest care 
Can fashion so the infant heart 
As those creative beams that dart, 
With all their hopes and fears, upon 
The cradle of a sleeping son. 

His startled eyes with wonder see 
A father near him on his knee, 
Who wishes all the while to trace 
The mother in his future face ; 
But 't is to her alone uprise 
His wakening arms ; to her those eyes 
Open with joy, and not surprise. 

WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR. 



YES, I do love thee well, my child ! 
Albeit mine's a wandering mind 
But never, darling, hast thou smiled 
Or breathed a wish that did not find 
A ready echo in my heart. 
What hours I've held thee on my knee, 
Thy little rosy lips apart ! 
Or, when asleep, I've gazed on thee 
And with old tunes sung thee to rest, 
Hugging thee closely to my bosom ; 
For thee my very heart hath blest, 
My joy, my care, my blue-eyed blossom . 



THOMAS MILLER. 






Little Brown Hands. 



tfTpiHEY drive home the cows from the 

| pasture, 

Up through the long shady lane, 
Where the quail whistles loud in the wneat 
fields, 

That are yellow with ripening grain. 
They find in the thick waving grasses 

Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows 
They gather the earliest snowdrops 

And the first crimson buds of the rose. 

They toss the new hay in the meadow ; 

They gather the elder-bloom white ; 
They find where the dusky grapes purple 

In the soft-tinted October light. 
They know where the apples hang ripest, 

And are sweeter than Italy's wines ; 
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest 

On the long thorny blackberry vines. 

They gather the delicate sea-weeds, 

And build tiny castles of sand ; 
They pick up the beautiful sea-shells — 

Fairy barks that have drifted to land. 
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops, 

Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings ; 
And at night time are folded in slumber 

By a song that a fond mother sings. 



114 



LITTLE BROWN HANDS. 



Those who toil bravely are strongest ; 

The humble and poor become great ; 
And so from these brown-handed children 

Shall grow mighty rulers of state. 
The pen of the author and statesman — 

The noble and wise of the land — 
The sword, and the chisel and palette 

Shall be held in the little brown hand. 



M. H. KROUT. 



, «/ & & , 



JAMES MELVILLE'S CHILD. 




efsT 



NE time my soul was pierced as 
with a sword, 
Contending still with men un- 
taught and wild, 
When He who to the prophet lent his gourd 
Gave me the solace of a pleasant child. 

A summer gift my precious flower was given, 
A very summer fragrance was its life ; 

Its clear eyes soothed me as the blue of heaven, 
When home I turn'd, a weary man of strife. 

With unform'd laughter, musically sweet, 
How soon the wakening babe would meet 
my kiss : 
With outstretch'd arm its care-wrought father 
greet! 
Oh, in the desert, what a spring was this ! 

A few short months it blossom'd near my heart : 
A few short months, else, toilsome all, and 
sad; 

But that home-solace nerved me for my part, 
And of the babe I was exceeding glad. 

Alas ! my pretty bud, scarce form'd, was dying 
(The prophet's gourd, it wither'd in a night); 

And He who gave me all, my heart's pulse 
trying, 
Took gently home the child of my delight. 

Not rudely cull'd, not suddenly it perish'd, 
But gradual faded from our love away : 

As if, still, secret dews, its life that cherish'd, 
Were drop by drop withheld, and day by day. 

My blessed Master saved me from repining, 
So tenderly He sued me for His own • 



So beautiful He made my babe's declining, 
Its dying bless'd me as its birth had done. 

And daily to my board at noon and even 
Our fading flower I bade his mother bring, 

That we might commune of our rest in Heaven, 
Gazing the while on death without its sting. 

And of the ransom for that baby paid 
So very sweet at times our converse seem'd, 

That the sure truth of grief a gladness made : 
Our little lamb by God's own Lamb redeem'd ! 

There were two milk-wite doves my wife had 
nourish'd ; 
And I too loved, erewhile, at times to stand 
Marking how each other fondly cherish'd, 
And fed them from my baby's dimpled hand. 

So tame they grew that, to his cradle flying, 
Full oft they coo'd him to his noontide rest ; 

And to the murmurs of his sleep replying, 
Crept gently in and nestled in his breast. 

'Twas a fair sight : the snow-pale infant sleep- 
ing, 
So fondly guardian'd by those creatures mild, 
Watch o'er his closed eyes their bright eyes 
keeping : 
Wondrous the love betwix the birds and 
child! 

Still as he sicken'd seem'd the doves too 
dwining, 
Forsook their food, and loathed their pretty 
play; 
And on the day he died, with sad note pining, 
One gentle bird would not be fray'd away. 

His mother found it, when she rose, sad-hearted, 
At early dawn, with sense of n earing ill ; 

And when, at last, the little spirit parted, 
The dove died too, as if of its heart-chill. 

The other flew to meet my sad home-riding, 
As with a human sorrow in its coo ; 

To my dear child and its dead mate then 
guiding, 
Most pitifully plan'd — and parted too. 

'Twas my first hansel and propine to Heaven ; 

And as I laid my darling 'neath the sod, 
Precious His comforts — once an infant given, 

And offer'd with two turtle-doves to God. 



MRS. A. STUART MENTEATH. 



115 



>M5 



:ephebd 



&A. FA8TORAI..S 



tiHE valley rings with mirth and joy; 
*■ Among the hills the echoes play 
<^* A never, never-ending song, 
To welcome in the May. 
The magpie chatters with delight ; 
The mountain raven's youngling brood 
Have left the mother and the nest ; 
And they go rambling east and west 
In search of their own food ; 
Or through the glittering vapors dart 
In very wantonness of heart. 

Beneath a rock, upon the grass, 
Two boys are sitting in the sun ; 
Their work, if any work they have, 
Is out of mind, — or done. 
On pipes of sycamore they play 
The fragments of a Christian hymn ; 
Or with that plant which in our dale 
We call stag-horn, or fox's tail, 
Their rusty hats they trim : 
And thus, as happy as the day, 
Those shepherds wear the time away. 

Along the river's stony marge 

The sand-lark chants a joyous song; 

The thrush is busy in the wood, 

And carols loud and strong. 

A thousand lambs are on the rocks, 

All newly born ! both earth and sky 

Keep jubilee, and more than all, 

Those boys with their green coronal ; 

They never hear the cry, 

That plaintive cry ! which up the hill 

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Ghyll. 

Said Walter, leaping from the ground, 
" Down to the stump of yon old yew 
We'll for our whistles run a race." 

Away the shepherds flew ; 

They leapt — they ran — and when they came 
Eight opposite to Dungeon-Ghyll, 
Seeing that he should lose the prize, 
" Stop ! " to his comrade Walter cries. 
James stopped with no good will. 
Said Walter then, exulting, " Here 
You'll find a task for half a year. 

" Cross, if you dare, where I shall cross, — 

Come on, and tread where I shall tread " 

The other took him at his word, 

And followed as he led. 

It was a spot which you may see 

If ever you to Langdale go ; 



Into the chasm a mighty block 

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock. 

The gulf is deep below ; 

And, in a basin black and small, 

Receives a lofty waterfall. 

With staff in hand across the cleft 

The challenger pursued his march ; 

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gained 

The middle of the arch. 

When list ! he hears a piteous moan. 

Again ! — his heart within him dies ; 

His pulse is stopped, his breath is lost, 

He totters, pallid as a ghost, 

And, looking down, espies 

A lamb, that in the pool is pent 

Within that black and frightful rent. 

The lamb had slipped into the stream, 

And safe without a bruise or wound 

The cataract had borne him down 

Into the gulf profound. 

His dam had seen him when he fell — 

She saw him down the torrent borne; 

And, with all a mother's love, 

She from the lofty rocks above 

Sent forth a cry forlorn ; 

The lamb, still swimming round and round 

Made answer in that plaintive sound. 

When he had learnt what thing it was 

That sent this rueful cry, I- ween 

The boy recovered heart, and told 

The sight which he had seen. 

Both gladly now deferred their task ; 

Nor was there wanting other aid : 

A Poet, one who loves the brooks 

Far better than the sages' books, 

By chance had hither strayed ; 

And there the helpless lamb he found 

By those huge rocks encompassed round. 

He drew it from the troubled pool, 

And brought it forth into the light ; 

The shepherds met him with his charge. 

An unexpected sight ! 

Into their arms the lamb they took, 

Whose life and limbs the flood had spared ; 

Then up the steep ascent they hied, 

And placed him at his mother's side ; 

And gently did the Bard 

Those idle shepherd boys upbraid, 

And bade them better mind their trade. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



116 




<=-&" 



^TOlUlSLEEPINGiCHILD^ 



?RT thou a thing of mortal birth, 
Whose happy home is on our earth ? 
Does human blood with life imbue 
Those wandering veins of heavenly blue 
That stray along that forehead fair, 
Lost mid a gleam of golden hair ? 
Oh ! can that light and airy breath 
Steal from a being doomed to death ; 
Those features to the grave be sent 
In sleep thus mutely eloquent ; 
Or, art thou, what thy form would seem, 
A phantom of a blessed dream ? 

A human shape I feel thou art — 
I feel it at my beating heart, 
Those tremors both of soul and sense 
Awoke by infant innocence ! 
Though dear the forms by Fancy wove. 
We love them with a transient love ; 
Thoughts from the living world intrude 
Even on her deepest solitude: 
But, lovely child ! thy magic stole 
At once into my inmost soul, 
With feelings as thy beauty fair, 
And left no other vision there. 

To me thy parents are unknown ; 
Glad would they be their child to own ! 
And well they must have loved before. 
If since thy birth they loved not more. 
Thou art a branch of noble stem, 
And, seeing thee, I figure them. 
What many a childless one would give. 
If thou in their still home wouldst live! 
Though in thy face no family line 
Might sweetly say. " This babe is mine !" 
In time thou wouldst become the same 
As their own child, — all but the name. 

How happy must thy parents be 
Who daily live in sight of thee ! 
Whose hearts no greater pleasure seek 
Than see the smile, and hear thee speak, 
And feel all natural griefs beguiled 
By thee, their fond, their duteous child. 



11 



What joy must in their souls have stirred 
When thy first broken words were heard — 
Words, that inspired by Heaven, expressed 
The transports dancing in thy breast ! 
And for thy smile ! — thy lip, cheek, brow 
Even while I gaze, are kindling now 

I called thee duteous ; am I wrong ? 
No ! truth, I feel, is in my song: 
Duteous, thy heart's still beatings move 
To God, to Nature, and to love ! 
To God ! — for thou, a harmless child, 
Hast kept his temple undefiled ; 
To Xature ! — for thy tears and sighs 
Obey alone her mysteries ; 
To love ! — for fiends of hate might see 
Thou dwell'st in love, and love in thee. 
What wonder then, though in thy dreams 
Thy face with mystic meaning beams ! 

Oh ! that my spirit's eye could see 
Whence burst those gleams of ecstasy ! 
That light of dreaming soul appears 
To play from thoughts above thy years ; 
Thou smilest as if thv soul were soaring 
To heaven, and heaven's God adoring. 
And who can tell what visions high 
May bless an infant's sleeping eye ? 
What brighter throne can brightness find 
To reign on, than an infant's mind, 
Ere sin destroy, or error dim, 
The glory of the seraphim ? 
But now thy changing smiles express 
Intelligible happiness. 
I feel my soul thy soul partake. 
What grief, if thou wouldst now awake ! 
With infants happy as thyself 
I see thee bound, a playful elf; 
I see thou art a darling child, 
Among thy playmates bold and mid ; 
They love thee well ; thou art the queen 
Of all their sports, in bower or green ; 
And if thou livest to woman's height, 
In thee will friendship, love, delight. 
7 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 



And live thou surely must ; thy life 
Is far too spiritual for the strife 
Of mortal pain ; nor could disease 
Find heart to prey on smiler like these. 
Oh ! thou wilt be an angel bright — 
To those thou lovest, a saving light — 
The staff of age, the help sublime 
Of erring youth, and stubborn prime ; 
And when thou goest to heaven again, 
Thy vanishing be like the strain 
Of airy harp — so soft the tone 
The ear scarce knows when it is gone ! 
Thrice blessed he whose stars design 
His spirit pure to lean on thine, 
And watchful share, for days and years, 
Thy sorrows, joys, sighs, smiles, and tears! 
For good and guiltless as thou art, 
Some transient griefs will touch thy heart — 
Griefs that along thy altered face 
Will breathe a more subduing grace 
Than even those looks of joy that lie 
On the soft cheek of infancy. 
Though looks, God knows, are cradled there 
That guilt might cleanse, or soothe despair. 

O vision fair ! that I could be 
Again as young, as pure, as thee ! 
Vain wish ! the rainbow's radiant form 
May view, but cannot brave, the storm ; 
Years can bedim the gorgeous dyes 
That paint the bird of Paradise; 
And years, so Fate hath ordered, roll 
Clouds o'er the summer of the soul. 
Yet, sometimes, sudden sights of grace, 
Such as the gladness of thy face, 
O sinless babe, by God are given 
To charm the wanderer back to heaven. 
No common impulse hath me led 
To this green spot, thy quiet bed, 
Where, by mere gladness overcome, 
In sleep thou dreamest of thy home. 
When to the lake I would have gone, 
A wondrous beauty drew me on — 
Such beauty as the spirit sees 
In glittering fields and moveless trees, 
After a warm and silent shower 
Ere falls on earth the twilight hour. 
What led me hither, all can say 
Who, knowing God, his will obey. 



Thy slumbers now cannot be long; 
Thy little dreams become too strong 
For sleep — too like realities; 
Soon shall I see those hidden eyes. 
Thou wakest, and starting from the ground, 
In dear amazement look'st around ; 
Like one who, little given to roam, 
Wonders to find herself from home ! 
But when a stranger meets thy view, 
Glistens thine eye with wilder hue. 
A moment's thought who I may be, 
Blends with thy smiles of courtesy. 

Fair was that face as break of dawn, 
When o'er its beauty sleep was drawn, 
Like a thin veil that half concealed 
The light of soul, and half revealed. 
While thy hushed heart with visions 

wrought 
Each trembling eyelash moved with 

thought 
And things we dream, but ne'er can speak, 
Like clouds came floating o'er thy cheek — 
Such summer-clouds as travel light, 
When the soul's heaven lies cold and 

bright — ■ 
Till thou awokest ; then to thine eye 
Thy whole heart leapt in ecstasy ! 
And lovely is that heart of thine, 
Or sure those eyes could never shine 
With such a wild, yet bashful glee, 
Gay, half-o'ercome timidity! 
Nature has breathed into thy face 
A spirit of unconscious grace — 
A spirit that lies never still, 
And makes thee joyous 'gainst thy will: 
As, sometimes o'er a sleeping lake 
Soft airs a gentle rippling make, 
Till, ere we know, the strangers fly, 
And water blends again with sky. 

happy sprite ! didst thou but know 
What pleasures through my being flow 
From thy soft eyes ! a holier feeling 
From their blue light could ne'er be 
stealing; 



118 



TO A SLEEPING CHILD. 



But thou wouldst be more loth to part, 
And give me more of that glad heart. 
Oh ! gone thou art ! and bearest hence 
The glory of thy innocence. 
But with deep joy I breathe the air 
That kissed thy cheek, and fanned thy hair, 
And feel, though fate our lives must sever, 
Yet shall thy image live for ever ! 

JOHN WILSON. 





EAR child ! whom sleep can 
hardly tame, 
As live and beautiful as flame, 
Thou glancest round my graver 
hours 
As if thy crown of wild-wood flowers 
Were not by mortal forehead worn, 
But on the summer breeze were borne, 
Or on a mountain streamlet's waves 
Came glistening down from dreamy caves. 

With bright round cheek, amid whose glow 
Delight and wonder ccme and go ; 
And eyes whose inward meanings play, 
Congenial with the light of day ; 
And brow so calm, a home for Thought 
Before he knows his dwelling wrought; 
Though wise indeed thou seemest not, 
Thou brightenest well the wise man's lot. 

That shout proclaims the undoubting mind; 
That laughter leaves no ache behind ; 
And in thy look and dance of glee, 
Unforced, unthought of, simply free, 
How weak the schoolman's formal art 
Thy soul and body's bliss to part ! 
I hail thee Childhood's very Lord, 
In gaze and glance, in voice and word. 



In spite of all foreboding fear, 
A thing thou art of present cheer ; 
And thus to be beloved and known, 
As is a rushy fountain's tone, 
As is the forest's leafy shade, 
Or blackbird's hidden serenade. 
Thou art a flash that lights the whole — 
A gush from Nature's vernal soul. 

And yet, dear child ! within thee lives 
A power that deeper feeling gives, 
That makes thee more than light or air, 
Than all things sweet and all things fair; 
And sweet and fair as aught may be, 
Diviner life belongs to thee, 
For 'mid thine aimless joys began 
The perfect heart and will of Man. 

Thus what thou art foreshows to me 
How greater far thou soon shalt be ; 
And while amid thy garlands blow 
The winds that warbling come and go, 
Ever within, not loud but clear, 
Prophetic murmur fills the ear, 
And says that every human birth 
Anew discloses God to earth. 

JOHN STERLING. 



■« t} a 



T .t..l. l ■ it to- 



fi Farewell. 



||||tiY fairest child, I have no song to give 

«1& y° u ; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and 
gray; 
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you 
For every day. 

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be 
clever; 
Do noble things, not dream them, all day 
long; 
And so make life, death, and that vast forever 
One grand, sweet song. 



CHARLES KINGSLEY. 



119 



H (ELP YOURSELVE)S. 




;ANY boys and girls make a 
failure in life because they 
do not learn to help them- 
selves. They depend on 
father and mother even to 
hang up their hats and 
to find their playthings. 
When they become men 
and women, they will depend on husbands 
and wives to do the same thing. " A nail 
to hang a hat on," said an old man of 
eighty years, " is worth everything to a 
boy." He had been "through the mill," 
as people say, so that he knew. His 
mother had a nail for him when a boy — 
" a nail to hang his hat on," and nothing 
else. It was "Henry's nail" from Jan- 
uary to January, year in and out, and no 
other member of the family was allowed 
to appropriate it for any purpose whatever. 
If the broom by chance was hung there- 
on, or an apron or coat, it was soon re- 
moved, because' that nail was "to hang 
Henry's hat on." And that nail did much 
for Henry ; it helped make him what he 
was in manhood — a careful, systematic, 
orderly man, at home and abroad, on his 
farm and in his house. He never wanted 
another to do what he could do for him- 
self. 

Young folks are apt to think that cer- 
tain things, good in themselves, are not 
honorable. To be a blacksmith or a boot- 
maker, to work on a farm or drive a team, 
is beneath their dignity, as compared with 
being a merchant, or practising medicine 
or law. This is pride, an enemy to suc- 
cess and happiness. No necessary labor is 
discreditable. It is never dishonorable to 
be useful. It is beneath no one's dig- 
nity to earn bread by the sweat of the 
brow. When boys who have such false 
notions of dignity become men, they are 



ashamed to help themselves as they ought, 
and for want of this quality they live and 
die unhonored. Trying to save their dig- 
nity, they lose it. 

Here is a fact we have from a very suc- 
cessful merchant. When he began busi- 
ness for himself, he carried his wares from 
shop to shop. At length his business 
increased to such an extent, that he hired 
a room at the Marlboro' Hotel, in Boston, 
during the business season, and thither 
the merchants, having been duly notified, 
would repair to make purchases. Among 
all his customers, there was only one man 
who would carry to his store the goods 
which he had purchased. The buyers 
asked to have their goods carried, and 
often this manufacturer would carry them 
himself. But there was one merchant, 
and the largest buyer of the whole num- 
ber, who was not ashamed to be seen car- 
rying a case of goods through the streets. 
Sometimes he would purchase four cases, 
and he would say, " Now, I will take two, 
and you take two, and we will carry them 
right over to the store." So the manu- 
facturer and the merchant often went 
through the streets of Boston quite heavily 
loaded. This merchant, of all the num- 
ber who went to the Marlboro' Hotel for 
their purchases, succeeded in business. He 
became a wealthy man when all the others 
failed. The manufacturer, who was not 
ashamed to help himself, is now living — 
one of the wealthy men of Massachusetts, 
ready to aid, by his generous gifts, every 
good object that comes along, and honored 
by all who know him. 

You have often heard and read the 
maxim, " God helps those who help them- 
selves." Is it not true ? 



WILLIAM M. THAYER. 



120 



-McMTTLE WD ^IDIJVIG K00D:{£* 





^OME back, come back together, 

All ye fancies of the past, 
^Ye days of April weather, 
Ye shadows that are cast 
By the haunted hours before ! 
Come back, come back, my Childhood ; 

Thou art summoned by a spell 
From the green leaves of the wild wood, 
From beside the charmed well, 
For Eed Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ! 

The fields were covered over 

With colors as she went ; 
Daisy, buttercup, and clover 

Below her footsteps bent ; 

Summer shed its shining store ; 
She was happy as she pressed them 

Beneath her little feet ; 
She plucked them and caressed them ; 

They were so very sweet, 

They had never seemed so sweet before, 
To Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 



How the heart of childhood dances 

Upon a sunny day ! 
It has its own romances, 

And a wide, wide world have they ! 
A world where Phantasie is king, 
Made all of eager dreaming ; 

When once grown up and tall — 
Now is the time for scheming — 
Then we shall do them all ! 

Do such pleasant fancies spring 
For Red Riding Hood, the darling, 

The flower of fairy lore '? 

She seems like an ideal love, 

The poetry of childhood shown, 
And yet loved with a real love, 

As if she were our own — 
A younger sister for the heart ; 
Like the woodland pheasant, 

Her hair is brown and bright ; 
And her smile is pleasant, 

With its rosy light. 

Never can the memory part 
With Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

Did the painter, dreaming 

In a morning hour, 
Catch the fairy seeming 

Of this fairy flower ? 
Winning it with eager eyes 
From the old enchanted stories, 
Lingering with a long delight 
On the unforgotten glories 
Of the infant sight? 

Giving us a sweet surprise 
In Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore ? 

Too long in the meadow staying, 

Where the cowslip bends, 
With the buttercups delaying 
As with early friends, 
Did the little maiden stay. 
Sorrowful the tale for us ; 

We, too, loiter, 'mid life's flowers, 
A little while so glorious, 
So soon lost in darker hours. 

All love lingering on their way, 
Like Red Riding Hood, the darling, 
The flower of fairy lore. 

L/ETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 



121 



"IkOD will tate tare of baby dear," 
My winsome darling said, 
When in her robe of white she knelt 
Beside her little bed. 

Her tiny dimpled hands were clasped, 

As though she were in prayer, 
And oh ! methought a heavenly glow 
Fell on her golden hair. 

A ray, it may be, darted through 

The door just pushed ajar 
By angel hand, whose radiant face 

Like a bright evening star 

Looked down upon my darling one, 

Kneeling beside her bed, 
And smiled to hear the simple faith 

In the sweet words she said. 

" Dod will tate tare of baby dear," 
And then the eyelids drooped ; 

I laid her gently down to sleep, 
But thought the angel stooped 

To kiss good-night ; for the red lips 

Were parted as she slept, 
And o'er her face a holy smile 

In rippling dimples crept. 

" God will take care of baby dear ! " 

Ah, yes ! I knew it well, 
E'en when the shadows, cold and chill, 

Upon her young life fell. 

And yet the mother-heart rebelled ! 

This puny hand, I said, 
Can shield her, guide her in the path 

Where God would have her led. 



I could not lose my petted flower, 
>■ So beautiful, so dear, 
Nor thought it was too dark and chill 
For such sweet blossoms here. 

" Dod will tate tare of baby dear," 
The parched lips murmured slow ! 

And then the eyelids drooped and closed 
Forever, here below ! 

Oh, mourning heart, hush thy sad wail, 
She's safe, now, in His love ; 

" God will take care of baby dear " 
In His bright home above. 

IDA GLENWOOD. 



THE QUEEN IN HER CARRIAGE 
IS RIDING BY. 

jfTb H, the queen in her carriage is passing by : 
II II Her cheeks are like roses, her eyes like 

the sky ; 
Her wonderful teeth are white as new milk, 
Her pretty blonde hair is softer than silk. 

She's the loveliest monarch that ever was seen; 
You ask of what country the darling is queen; 
Her empire extends not to far distant parts, 
She is queen of our household, the mistress of 
hearts. 

For scepter she lifts her soft dimpled hands; 
Her subjects all hasten to heed her commands 
Her smile is bewitching, and fearful her frown, 
And all must obey when she puts her foot 
down. 

May blessings descend on the bright little head, 
From the time she awakes till she's safely in 

bed; 
And now do you guess, when I speak of the 

queen, 
"Tis only our six months baby I mean ? 



122 



-£Tv£/{S^l£ekSV 




THAT way look, my infant, lo! 
What a pretty baby-show ! 
See the kitten on the wall, 
Sporting with the leaves that fall — 
Withered leaves, — one, two, and three,- 
From the lofty elder-tree ! 
Through the calm and frosty air 
Of this morning bright and fair, 
Eddying round and round, they sink 
Softly, slowly ; one might think, 
From the motions that are made, 
Every little leaf conveyed 
Sylph or fairy hither tending, 
To this lower world descending, 
Each invisible and mute 
In his wavering parachute. 

But the Kitten, how she starts, 

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts ! 

First at one, and then its fellow, 

Just as light and just as yellow; 

There are many now, — now one, — 

Now they stop, and there are none. 

What intenseness of desire 

In her upward eye of fire ! 

With a tiger-leap ! Half-way 

Now she meets the coming prey, 

Lets it go as fast, and then 

Has it in her power again ; 

Now she works with three or four, 

Like an Indian conjurer; 

Quick as he in feats of art, 

Far beyond in joy of heart. 

Were her antics played in the eye 

Of a thousand standers-by, 

Clapping hands with shout and stare, 

What would little Tabby care 

For the plaudits of the crowd ? 

Over happy to be proud, 

Over wealthy in the treasure 

Of her own exceeding pleasure ! 

'Tis a pretty baby treat, 
Nor, I deem, for me unmeet ; 



Here for neither Babe nor me 
Other playmate can I see. 
Of the countless living things 
That with stir of feet and wings 
(In the sun or under shade, 
Upon bough or grassy blade), 
And with busy revellings, 
Chirp, and song, and murmurings, 
Made this orchard's narrow space, 
And this vale, so blithe a place ; 
Multitudes are swept away, 
Never more to breathe the day. 
Some are sleeping ; some in bands 
Traveled into distant lands ; 
Others slunk to moor and wood, 
Far from human neighborhood ; 
And, among the kinds that keep 
With us closer fellowship, 
With us openly abide, 
All have laid their mirth aside. 

Where is he, that giddy sprite, 
Blue-cap, with his colors bright, 
Who was blest as bird could be 
Feeding in the apple-tree — 
Made such wanton spoil and rout, 
Turning blossoms inside out — 
Hung, head pointing towards the ground, 
Fluttered, perched, into a round 
Bound himself, and then unbound — 
Lithest, gaudiest Harlequin ! 
Prettiest tumbler ever seen ! 
Light of heart, and light of limb — 
What is now become of him ? 
Lambs, that through the mountains went 
Frisking, bleating merriment, 
When the year was in its prime, 
They are sobered by this time. 
If you look to vale or hill, 
If you listen, all is still, 
Save a little neighboring rill 
That from out the rocky ground 
Strikes a solitary sound. 



123 



THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEA VES. 



Vainly glitter hill and plain, 
And the air is calm in yain; 
Vainly Morning spreads the lure 
Of a sky serene and pure ; 
Creature none can she decoy 
Into open sign of joy. 
Is it that they have a fear 
Of the dreary season near ? 
Or that other pleasures be 
Sweeter even than gayety ? 

Yet, whate'er enjoyments dwell 
In the impenetrable cell 
Of the silent heart which Nature 
Furnishes to every creature — 
Whatsoe'er we feel and know 
Too sedate for outward show — 
Such a light of gladness breaks, 
Pretty Kitten ! from thy freaks, — 
Spreads with such a living grace 
O'er my little Dora's face — 
Yes, the sight so stirs and charms 
Thee, Baby, laughing in my arms, 
That almost I could repine 
That your transports are not mine, 
That I do not wholly fare 
Even as ye do, thoughtless pair ! 
And I will have my careless season 
Spite of melancholy reason, 
Will walk through life in such a way 
That, when time brings on decay, 
Now and then I may possess 
Hours of perfect gladsomeness. 
Pleased by my random toy — 
By a kitten's busy joy, 
Or an infant's laughing eye. 
Sharing in the ecstasy — 
I would fare like that or this. 
Find my wisdom in my bliss, 
Keep the sprightly soul awake, 
And have faculties to take, 
Even from things by sorrow wrought, 
Matter for a jocund thought — 
Spite of care, and spite of grief, 
To gambol with Life's falling leaf. 



zlih 



The Fairy Child, 



<i> 



|HE summer sun was sinking 
With a mild light, calm and 
mellow ; 
It shone on my little boy's bonny cheeks, 
And his loose locks of yellow. 

The robin was singing sweetly, 
And his song was sad and tender; 

And my little boy's eyes, while he heard 
the song, 
Smiled with a sweet soft splendor. 

My little boy lay on my bosom 

While his soul the song was quaffing ; 

The joy of his soul had tinged his cheek, 
And his heart and his eye were laughing. 

I sate alone in my cottage, 

The midnight needle plying ; 
I feared for my child, for the rush's light 

In the socket now was dying ! 

There came a hand to my lonely latch, 
Like the wind at midnight moaning ; 

I knelt to pray; but rose again, 

For I heard my little boy groaning. 

I crossed my brow and I crossed my breast, 
But that night my child departed — 

They left a weakling in his stead, 
And I am broken-hearted ! 

Oh ! it cannot be my own sweet boy, 
For his eyes are dim and hollow; 

My little boy is gone — is gone, 
And his mother soon will follow. 

The dirge for the dead will be sung for me, 
And the mass be chanted meetly, 

And I shall sleep with my little boy, 
In the moonlit churchyard sweetly. 



WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



JOHN ANSTER. 



124 



-&-*- 



-4-8" 



THRENODY 




<{> 



o/i\o 



1 HE South-wind brings 

Life, sunshine, and desire, 

And on every mount and meadow 

Breathes aromatic fire ; 

But over the dead he has no power ; 

The lost, the lost, he cannot restore ; 

And, looking over the hills, I mourn 

The darling who shall not return. 

I see my empty house ; 

I see my trees repair their boughs ; 

And he, the wondrous child, 

Whose silver warble wild 

Outvalued every pulsing sound 

Within the air's cerulean round — 

The hyacinthine boy, ior whom 

Morn well might break and April bloom — 

The gracious boy, who did adorn 

The world whereinto he was born, 

And by his countenance repay 

The favor of the loving Day — 

Has disappeared from the Day's eye ; 

Far and wide she cannot find him ; 

My hopes pursue, they cannot bind him. 

Beturned this day, the South-wind searches, 

And finds young pines and budding birches ; 

Bui? finds not the budding man ; 

Nature, who lost him, cannot remake him ; 

Fate let him fall, Fate can't retake him ; 

Nature, Fate, Men, him seek in vain. 

And whither now, my truant wise and sweet, 

Oh, whither tend thy feet? 

I had the right, few days ago, 

Thy steps to watch, thy place to know ; 

How have I forfeited the right ? 

Hast thou forgot me in a new delight ? 

I hearken for thy household cheer, 

eloquent child ! 

Whose voice, an equal messenger, 

Conveyed thy meaning mild. 

What though the pains and joys 

Whereof it spoke were toys 

Fitting his age and ken, 

Yet fairest dames and bearded men, 

Who heard the sweet request, 

So gentle, wise, and grave, 

Bended with joy to his behest, 



And let the world's affairs go by, 
Awhile to share his cordial game, 
Or mend his wicker wagon-frame, 
Still plotting how their hungry ear 
That winsome voice again might hear 
For his lips could well pronounce 
Words that were persuasions. 

Gentlest guardians marked serene 
His early hope, his liberal mien ; 
Took counsel from his guiding eyes 
To make this wisdom earthly wise. 
Ah, vainly do these eyes recall 
The school-march, each day's festival, 
When every morn my bosom glowed 
To watch the convoy on the road ; 
The babe in willow wagon closed, 
With rolling eyes and face composed ; 
With children forward and behind, 
Like Cupids studiously inclined ; 
And he the chieftain paced beside, 
The centre of the troop allied, 
With sunny face of sweet repose, 
To guard the babe from fancied foes. 
The little captain innocent 
Took the eye with him as he went; 
Each village senior paused to scan 
And speak the lovely caravan. 
From the window I look out 
To mark thy beautiful parade, 
Stately marching in cap and coat 
To some tune by fairies played ; 
A music, heard by thee alone, 
To works as noble led thee on. 



Now Love and Pride, alas ! in vain, 
Up and down their glances strain. 
The painted sled stands where it stood; 
The kennel by the corded wood ; 
The gathered sticks to stanch the wall 
Of the snow-tower, when snow should fall; 
The ominous hole he dug in the sand, 
And childhood's castles built or planned : 
His daily haunts I well discern — 
The poultry-yard, the shed, the barn — 
And every inch of garden ground 
Paced by the blessed feet around 



125 



THRENODY. 



From the roadside to the brook 

Whereinto he loved to look. 

Step the meek birds where erst they ranged 

The wintry garden lies unchanged : 

The brook into the stream runs on ; 

But the deep-eyed boy is gone. 

On that shaded day, 

Dark with more clouds than tempests are, 

When thou didst yield thy innocent breath 

In birdlike heavings unto death, 

Night came, and Nature had not thee ; 

I said : " We are mates in misery." 

The morrow dawned with needless glow ; 

Each snowbird chirped, each fowl must crow; 

Each tramper started ; but the feet 

Of the most beautiful and sweet 

Of human youth had left the hill 

And garden — they were bound and still. 

There's not a sparrow or a wren, 

There's not a blade of Autumn grain, 

Which the four seasons do not tend, 

And tides of life and increase lend ; 

And every chick of every bird, 

And weed and rock-moss is preferred. 

Oh, ostrich-like forgetfulness ! 

Oh loss of larger in the less ! 

Was there no star that could be sent, 

No watcher in the firmament, 

No angel from the countless host 

That loiters round the crystal coast, 

Could stoop to heal that only child, 

Nature's sweet marvel undefiled, 

And keep the blossom of the earth, 

Which all her harvests were not worth ? 

Not mine — I never called thee mine, 

But Nature's heir — if I repine, 

And seeing rashly torn and moved 

Not what I made, but what I loved, 

Grew early old with grief that thou 

Must to the wastes of Nature go — 

'T is because a general hope 

Was quenched, and all must doubt and grope. 

For flattering planets seemed to say 

This child should ills of ages stay, 

By wondrous tongue, and guided pen, 

Bring the flown Muses back to men. 

Perchance not he, but Nature, ailed ; 

The world and not the infant failed. 

It was not ripe yet to sustain 

A genius of so fine a strain, 

Who gazed upon the sun and moon 

As if he came unto his own ; 



And, pregnant with his grander thought, 
Brought the old order into doubt. 

His beauty once their beauty tried ; 
They could not feed him, and he died, 
And wandered backward as in scorn, 
To wait an aeon to be born. 
Ill day which made this beauty waste, 
Plight broken, this high face defaced ! 
Some went and came about the dead ; 
And some in books of solace read ; 
Some to their friends the tidings say ; 
Some went to write, some went to pray ; 
One tarried here, there hurried one : 
But their heart abode with none. 
Covetous Death bereaved us all, 
To aggrandize one funeral. 
The eager fate which carried thee 
Took the largest part of me. 
For this losing is true dying ; 
This is lordly man's down-lying, 
This his slow but sure reclining, 
Star by star his world resigning. 

child of Paradise, 

Boy who made dear his father's home, 

In whose deep eyes 

Men read the welfare of the times to come, 

1 am too much bereft. 

The world dishonored thou hast left. 
Oh, truth's and nature's costly lie ! 
Oh, trusted broken prophecy ! 
Oh richest fortune sourly crossed ! 
Born for the future, to the future lost ! 

The deep Heart answered : " Weepest thou ? 

Worthier cause for passion wild 

If I had not taken the child. 

And deemest thou as those who pore, 

With aged eyes, short way before — 

Think 'st Beauty vanished from the coast 

Of matter, and thy darling lost ? 

Taught he not thee — the man of eld, 

Whose eyes within his eyes beheld 

Heaven's numerous hierarchy span 

The mystic gulf from God to man ? 

To be alone wilt thou begin 

When worlds of lovers hem thee in ? 

To-morrow when the mask shall fall 

That dizen Nature's carnival, 

The pure shall see by their own will, 

Which overflowing Love shall fill, 

'Tis not within the force of Fate 

The fate-conjoined to separate. 



126 



THRENODY. 



But thou, my votary, weepest thou? 

I gave thee sight — where is it now ? 

I taught thy heart beyond the reach 

Of ritual, bible, or of speech ; 

Wrote in thy mind's transparent table, 

As far as the incommunicable ; 

Taught thee each private sign to raise, 

Lit by the super-solar blaze. 

Past utterance, and past belief, 

And past the blasphemy of grief, 

The mysteries of Nature's heart ; 

And though no Muse can these impart, 

Throb thine with Nature's throbbing breast, 

And all is clear from east to west. 

"I came to thee as to a friend; 
Dearest, to thee I did not send 
Tutors, but a joyful eye, 
Innocence that matched the sky, 
Lovely locks, a form of wonder, 
Laughter rich as woodland thunder, 
That thou might'st entertain apart 
The richest flowering of all art ; 
And, as the great all-loving Day 
Through smallest chambers takes its way, 
That thou might'st break thy daily bread 
With prophet, saviour, and head ; 
That thou might'st cherish for thine own 
The riches of sweet Mary's son, 
Boy-rabbi, Israel's paragon. 
And thoughtest thou such guest 
Would in thy hall take up his rest? 
Would rushing life forget her laws, 
Fate's glowing revolution pause ? 
High omens ask diviner guess, 
Not to be conned to tediousness. 
And know my higher gifts unbind 
The zone that girds the incarnate mind. 
When the scanty shores are full 
With Thought's perilous, whirling pool ; 
When frail Nature can no more, 
Then the Spirit strikes the hour : 
My servant Death, with solving rite, 
Pours finite into infinite. 

' Wilt thou freeze Love's tidal flow, 
Whose streams through Nature circling go ? 
Nail the wild star to its track 
On the half-climbed zodiac ? 
Light is light which radiates ; 



Blood is blood which circulates ; 
Life is life which generates ; 
And many-seeming life is one — 
Wilt thou transfix and make it none ? 

Its onward force too starkly pent 

In figure, bone, and lineament ? 

Wilt thou, uncalled, interrogate, 

Talker ! the unreplying Fate ? 

Nor see the genius of the whole 

Ascendant in the private soul, 

Beckon it when to go and come, 

Self-announced its hour of doom ? 

Fair the soul's recess and shrine, 

Magic-built to last a season ; 

Masterpiece of love benign ; 

Fairer than expansive reason, 

Whose omen 'tis, and sign. 

Wilt thou not ope thy heart to know 

What rainbows teach, and sunsets show ? 

Verdicts which accumulates 

From lengthening scroll of human fates, 

Voice of earth to earth returned, 

Prayers of saints that inly burned — 

Saying : What is excellent, 

As God lives, is permanent ; 

Hearts are dust, hearts' loves retrain ; 

Hearts' love will meet thee again. 

Eevere the Maker; fetch thine eye 

Up to his style, and manners of the sky. 

Not of adamant and gold 

Built he heaven stark and cold ; 

No, but a nest of bending reeds, 

Flowering grass, and scented weeds : 

Or like a traveller's fleeing tent, 

Or bow above the tempest bent ; 

Built of tears and sacred flames, 

And virtue reaching to its aims ; 

Built of furtherance and pursuing, 

Not of spent deeds, but of doing. 

Silent rushes the swift Lord 

Through ruined systems still restored, 

Broadsowing, bleak and void to bless, 

Plants with worlds the wilderness ; 

Waters with tears of ancient sorrow 

Apples of Eden ripe to-morrow. 

House and tenant go to ground, 

Lost in God, in Godhead found." 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 




127 



The Morning-Glory. 




E wreathed about our dar- 
ling's head 
'M The morning-glory bright ; 
^ Her little face looked out* 
beneath, 
So full of life and light, 
So lit as with a sunrise, 

That we could only say, 
" She is the morning glory true, 
And her poor types are they." 

So always from that happy time 

We called her by their name, 
And very fitting did it seem ; 

For sure as morning came, 
Behind her cradle-bars she smiled 

To catch the first faint ray, 
As from the trellis smiles the flower 

And opens to the day. 

But not so beautiful they rear 

Their airy cups of blue 
As turned her sweet eyes to the light, 

Brimmed with sleep's tender dew ; 
And not so close their tendrils fine 

Round their supports are thrown 
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea 

Clasped all hearts to her own. 

"We used to think how she had come, 

Even as comes the flower, 
The last and added perfect gift 

To crown Love's morning hour j 
And how in her was imaged forth 

The love we could not say, 
As on the little dewdrops round 

Shines back the heart of day. 



We never could have thought, O God, 

That she must wither up 
Almost before a day was flown, 

Like the morning-glory's cup; 
We never thought to see her droop 

Her fair and noble head, 
Till she lay stretched before our eyes, 

Wilted, and cold, and dead ! 

The morning-glory's blossoming 

Will soon be coming round; 
We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves 

Upspringing from the ground; 
The tender things the winter killed 

Renew again their birth, 
But the glory of our morning 

Has passed away from earth. 

O Earth ! in vain our aching eyes 

Stretch over thy green plain ! 
Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, 

Her spirit to sustain ; 
But up in groves of Paradise 

Full surely we shall see 
Our morning-glory beautiful 

Twine round our dear Lord's knee. 

MARIA WHITE LOWELL. 



A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER. 



1 



P to me sweet childhood looketh, 
Heart and mind and soul awake ; 

Teach me of thy ways, oh Father ! 
For sweet childhood sake. 



128 



A MOTHER'S MORNING PRAYER. 



In their young hearts, soft and tender, 
Guide my hand good seed to sow, 

That its blossoming may praise thee 
Wheresoe'er they go. 

Give to me a cheerful spirit, 
That my little flock may see 

It is good and pleasant service 
To be taught of Thee. 

Father, order all my footsteps; 

So direct my daily way 
That, in following me, the children 

May not go astray. 

Let thy holy counsel lead me — 
Let thy light before me shine, 

That they may not stumble over 
Word or deed of mine. 

Draw us hand in hand to Jesus, 

For his word's sake — unforgot, 
" Let the little ones come to me, 
And forbid them not." 



And these dark bodies and this sunburnt face 
Are but a cloud, and like a shady grove. 

" For, when our souls have learn'd the heat to 
bear, 
The cloud will vanish, Ave shall hear His 
voice 
Saying : ' Come from the grove, my love and 
care, 
And round my golden tent like lambs 
rejoice.' " 

Thus did my mother say, and kissed me, 

And thus I say to little English boy, 
When I from black, and he from white cloud 
free, 
And round the tent of God, like lambs we 
joy. 

I'll shade him from the heat, till he can bear 

To lean in joy upon our Father's knee ; 
And then I'll stand and stroke his silver hair„ 
And be like him, and he will then love me. 

WILLIAM BLAKE.. 



-ZtL 



THE LITTLE BLACK BOY. 



MY mother bore me in the southern 
wild, 
And I am black, but, oh, my soul is 
white ! 
White as an angel is the English child, 
But I am black, as if bereaved of light. 

My mother taught me underneath a tree ; 

And, sitting down before the heat of day, 
She took me on her lap and kissed me, 

And, pointing to the East, began to say : 

" Look on the rising sun ; there God does live, 
And gives his light, and gives his heat away, 

And flowers, and trees, and beasts, and men, 
receive 
Comfort in morning, joy in the noon-day. 

" And we are put on earth a little space, 
That we may learn to bear the beams of love ; 



H 



' OW peacefully they rest, 
Crossfolded there 
Upon his little breast, 
Those small white hands that ne'er were- 
still before, 
But ever sported with his mother's hair, 
Or the plain cross that on her breast she 
wore; 
Her heart no more will beat 

To feel the touch of that soft palm, 
That ever seemed a new surprise, 
Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes 
To bless him with their holy calm. 

Full short his journey was; no dust 

Of earth unto his sandals clave ; 
The weary weight that old men must, 

He bore not to the grave. 
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way 
And wandered hither ; so his stay 

With us was short; and 'twas most meet 
That he should be no delver in earth's clod, 

Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet 
To stand before his God, 

0. blest word — evermore! 

J. R. LOWELL. 

129 9 




J 

A SUNBEAM AND A SHADOW. 



N 

(HEAR a shout of merriment, a laughing boy I see ; 
Two little feet the carpet press, and bring the child to me ; 
Two little arms are round my neck, two feet upon my knee j 
How fall the kisses on my cheek ! how sweet they are to me ! 

That merrry shout no more I hear, no laughing child I see ; 
No little arms are round my neck, nor feet upon my knee ! 
No kisses drop upon my cheek ; those lips are sealed to me. 
Dear Lord ! how could I give him up to any but to thee ! 

MONTHLY RELIGIOUS MAGAZINE. 



Some (Bother's @hild. 



T home or away, in the alley or street, 

Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet 
A girl that is thoughtless, or a boy that is wild, 
My heart echoes softly, " 'Tis some mother's child." 

And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled, 
Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold, — 

Be it woman all fallen, or man all denied, 

A voice whispers sadly, " Ah! some mother's child." 

No matter how far from the right she hath strayed ; 
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made : 
No matter what elements cankered the pearl — 
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's girl. 

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been ; 
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin : 
No matter how low is his standard of joy ; — 
Though guilty and loathsome, he is some mother's boy. 

That head hath been pillowed on some tender breast; 
That form hath been wept o'er, those lips have been pressed ; 
That soul hath been prayed for, in tones sweet and mild : 
For her sake deal gently with — some mother's child. 

FRANCIS L. KEELER. 

130 




+- 



f ii mat ■ •; 



H^ CLOUD is on my heart and brow, 
L\ The tears are in my eyes, 

-*- -A. And wishes fond, all idle now, 

Are stifled into sighs ; — 
As, musing on thy early doom, 
Thou bud of beauty, snatched to bloom, 

So soon, 'neath milder skies, 
I turn, thy painful struggle past, 
From what thou art to what thou wast! 

I think of all thy winning ways, 
Thy frank but boisterous glee, 
Thy arch, sweet smiles, thy coy delays, 

Thy step, so light and free ; 
Thy sparkling glance, and hasty run, 
Thy gladness when the task was done 

And gained thy mother's knee ; — 
Thy gay, good-humored, childish ease, 
And all thy thousand arts to please ! 

Where are they now, and where, oh where ! 

The eager, fond caress, 
The blooming cheek, so fresh and fair, 

The lips all sought to press ? 
The open brow, and laughing eye, 
The heart that leaped so joyously? 

Ah ! had we loved them less ! 
Yet there are thoughts can bring relief, 
And sweeten even this cup of grief. 

Thou hast escaped a thorny scene, 

A wilderness of woe, 
Where many a blast of anguish keen 

Had taught thy tears to flow ; 
Perchance some wild and withering grief 
Had sered thy summer's earliest leaf, 

In these dark bowers below, 
Or sickening thrills of hope deferred, 
To strife thy gentlest thoughts had stirred! 

Thou hast escaped life's fitful sea, 

Before the storm arose, 
Whilst yet its gliding waves were free 

From aught that marred respose ; 



Safe from the thousand throes of pain, 
Ere sin or sorrow breathed a stain 

Upon thine opening rose ; — 
And who can calmly think of this, 
Nor envy thee thy doom of bliss ? 

I culled from home's beloved bowers 

To deck thy last long sleep, 
The brightest-hued, most fragrant flowers 

That summer's dews may steep : 
The rosebud, emblem meet, was there, 
The violet blue, and jasmine fair, 

That drooping seemed to weep ; — 
And now I add this lowlier spell : — 
Sweets to the passing sweet, farewell ! 



ALARIC A. WATTS. 



-&m 



a«- 



THEf MOTHER 'SfflOPE. 



IS there, when the winds are singing 
In the happy summer time — 
When the raptured air is ringing 
With Earth's music heavenward springing, 

Forest chirp, and village chime — 
Is there, of the sounds that float 
Unsighingly, a single note 
Half so sweet, and clear, and wild, 
As the laughter of a child ? 

Listen ! and be now delighted : 

Morn hath touched her golden strings ; 
Earth and Sky their vows have plighted j 
Life and Light are reunited, 

Amid countless carollings; 
Yet, delicious as they are, 
There is a sound that's sweeter far — 
One that makes the heart rejoice 
More than all — the human voice ! 



131 



THE MOTHER'S HOPE. 



Organ finer, deeper, clearer, 
Though it be a stranger's tone — 
Than the winds or waters dearer, 
More enchanting to the hearer 
For it answereth to his own. 
But, of all its witching words, 
Those are sweetest, bubbling wild 
Through the laughter of a child. 

Harmonies from time-touched towers, 

Haunted strains from rivulets, 
Hum of bees among the flowers, 
Rustling leaves and silver showers, — 

These, ere long, the ear forgets ; 
But in mine there is a sound 
Ringing on the whole year round — 
Heart-deep laughter that I heard 
Ere my child could speak a word. 

Ah ! 'twas heard by ear far purer, 

Fondlier formed to catch the strain- 
Ear of one whose love is surer — 
Hers, the mother, the endurer 

Of the deepest share of pain ; 
Hers the deepest bliss to treasure 
Memories of that cry of pleasure ; 
Hers to hoard, a life-time after, 
Echoes of that infant laughter. 

'T is a mother's large affection 

Hears with a mysterious sense — 
Breathings that evade detection, 
Whisper faint and fine inflexion, 

Thrill in her with power intense. 
Childhood's honey'd words untaught 
Hiveth she in loving thought — 
Tones that never thence depart ; 
For she listens — with her heart. 



VACATION, 




MASTEK, no more of your lessons ! 
ffi For a season we bid them good by, 
7 And turn to the manifold teachings 
Of ocean, and forest, and sky. 
We must plunge into billow and breaker; 

The fields we must ransack anew ; 
And again must the sombre woods echo 
The glee of our merry-voiced crew. 



From teacher's and preacher's dictation — 

From all the dreaded lore of the books — 
Escaped from the thraldom of study, 

We turn to the babble of brooks ; 
We hark to the field-minstrels' music, 

The lowing of herds on the lea, 
The surge of the winds in the forest, 

The roar of the storm-angered sea. 



To the tree-tops we'll climb with the squirrels ; 

We will race with the brooks in the glens ; 
The rabbits we'll chase to their burrows ; 

The foxes we'll hunt to their dens ; 
The woodchucks, askulk in their caverns, 

Weill visit again and again ; 
And we'll peep into every bird's nest 

The copses and meadows contain. 



For us are the blackberries ripening 

By many a moss-covered wall ; 
There are bluehats enough in the thickets 

To furnish a treat for us all ; 
In the swamps there are ground-nuts in plenty; 

The sea-sands their titbits afford ; 
And, 0, most delectable banquet, 

We will feast at the honey-bee's board ! 



O, comrades, the graybeards assure us 

That life is a burden of cares ; 
That the highways and byways of manhood 

Are fretted with pitfalls and snares. 
Well, school-days have their tribulations ; 

Their troubles, as well as their joys. 
Then give us vacation forever, 

If we must forever be boys ! 



LA MAN BLANCHARD. 



1EVERLY MOORE. 



132 




•^-BABIES AND THEIR RIGHTS.-^- 




BABY has a right, too fre- 
quently denied it, to be let 
alone. It ought to be a rule 
in the nursery never to dis- 
turb the infant when it is happy and quiet. 
Older children, too, two, three, and four 
years of age, who are amusing themselves 
in a peaceful, contented way, ought not to 
be wantonly interfered with. I have often 
seen a little creature lying in its crib coo- 
ing, laughing, crooning to itself in the 



sweetest baby fashion, without a care in 
the world to vex its composure, when in 
would come mamma or nurse, seize it, 
cover it with endearments, and effectually 
break up its tranquility. Then, the next 
time, when these thoughtless people want- 
ed it to be quiet, they were surprised that 
it refused to be so. It is habit and train- 
ing which makes little children restless 
and fretful, rather than natural disposi- 
tion, in a multitude of cases. A healthy 



133 



BABIES AND THEIR RIGHTS. 



babe, coolly and loosely dressed, judicious- 
ly fed, and frequently bathed, will be good 
and comfortable if it have not too much 
attention. But when it is liable a dozen 
times a day to be caught wildly up, 
bounced and jumped about, smothered 
with kisses, poked by facetious fingers, 
and petted till it is thoroughly out of 
sorts, what can be expected of it? How 
would fathers and mothers endure the 
martyrdom to which they allow the babies 
to be subjected ? 

Another right which every baby has is 
to its own mother's care and supervision. 
The mother may not be strong enough to 
hold her child and carry it about, to go 
with it on its outings, and to personally 
attend to all its wants. Very often it is 
really better for both mother and child 
that the strong arms of an able-bodied 
woman should bear it through its months 
of helplessness. Still, no matter how ap- 
parently worthy of trust a nurse or serv- 
ant may be, unless she have been tried and 
proved by long and faithful service and 
friendship, a babe is too precious to be 
given unreservedly to her care. The 
mother herself, or an elder sister or auntie, 
should hover protectingly near the tiny 
creature, whose life-long happiness may 
depend on the way its babyhood is passed. 
Who has not seen in the city parks the 
beautifully-dressed infants, darlings evi- 
dently of homes of wealth and refinement, 
left to bear the beams of the sun and 
stings of gnats and flies, while the nurses 
gossiped together, oblivious of the flight 
of time ? Mothers are often quick to re- 
sent stories of the neglect or cruelty of 
their employees, and cannot be made to 
believe that their own children are suffer- 
ers. And the children are too young to 
speak. 

The lover of little ones can almost al- 
ways see the subtle difference which exists 



between the babies whom mothers care for, 
and the babies who are left to hirelings. 
The former have a sweeter, shyer, gladder 
look than the latter. Perhaps the babies 
who are born, so to speak, with silver 
spoons in their mouths, are better off than 
those who came to the heritage of a gold 
spoon. The gold spooners have lovely 
cradles and vassinets. They wear Val- 
enciennes lace and embroidery, and fash- 
ion dictates the cut of their bibs, and the 
length of their flowing robes. They are 
waited upon by bonnes in picturesque 
aprons and caps, and the doctor is sent for 
whenever they have the colic. The little 
silver-spooners, on the other hand, are 
arrayed in simple slips, which the mother 
made herself in dear, delicious hours, the 
sweetest in their mystic joy which happy 
womanhood knows. They lie on the sofa, 
or on two chairs with a pillow placed 
carefully to hold them, while she sings at 
her work, spreads the snowy linen on the 
grass, moulds the bread, and shells the 
peas. The mother's hands wash and dress 
them, the father rocks them to sleep, the 
proud brothers and sisters carry them to 
walk, or wheel their little wagons along 
the pavement. Fortunate babies of the 
silver spoon ! 

Alas and alack ! for the babies who 
have never a spoon at all, not even a horn 
or a leaden one. Their poor parents love 
them, amid the squalid circumstances 
which hem them in, but they can do little 
for their well-being, and they die by hun- 
dreds in garrets and cellars and close tene- 
ment rooms. When the rich and char- 
itable shall devise some way to care for 
the babies of the poor, when New York 
shall imitate Paris in founding an institu- 
tion akin to La Creche, we shall have 
taken a long step forward in the direction 
of social and moral elevation. 



M. E. SANGSTER. 



134 




(5o <By Daughter. 



-ON HER BIRTHDAY. - 



pj]EAR Fannie ! nine long years ago, 
While yet the morning sun was low, 
And rosy with the eastern glow, 
The landscape smiled ; 
Whilst lowed the newly-wakened herds — 
Sweet as the early song of birds, 
I heard those first, delightful words, 
"Thou hast a child!" 

Along with that uprising dew 
Tears glistened in eyes, though few, 
To hail a dawning quite as new 

To me, as Time : 
It was not sorrow — not annoy — 
But like a happy maid, though coy, 
With grief-like welcome, even Joy 

Forestalls its prime. 

So may'st thou live, dear ! many years, 
In all the bliss that life endears, 



Not without smiles, nor yet from tears, 

Too strictly kept. 
When first thy infant littleness 
I folded in my fond caress, 
The greatest proof of happiness 

Was this — I wept. 



THOMAS HOOD. 



e^ 



-*-« 



]|0ttt lip fab$ §nmt[ jljm\ 

•"""PWAS whispered one morning 

JL Heaven, 

How the little child-angel May, 
In the shade of the great white portal, 
Sat sorrowing night and day. 
How she said to the stately warden — 
He of the key and bar — 
" Oh angel, sweet angel ! I pray you, 
Set the beautiful gates ajar — 



in 



135 



HOW THE GATES CAME AJAR. 



Only a little, won't you 
Set the beautiful gates ajar ! 

"I can hear my mother weeping; 

She is lonely ; she cannot see 

A glimmer of light in the darkness 

When the gates shut after me. 

Oh ! turn me the key, sweet angel, 

The splendor will shine so far !" 

But the warden answered, " I dare not 

Set the beautiful gates ajar." 

Spoke low and answered : " I dare not 

Set the beautiful gates ajar." 

Then up rose Mary the Blessed, 
Sweet Mary, mother of Christ ; 
Her hand on the hand of the Angel 
She laid, and the touch sufficed. 
Turned was the key in the portal, 
Fell ringing the golden bar; 
And lo ! in the little child's fingers 
Stood the beautiful gates ajar! 

" And the key for no further using, 
To my blessed son shall be given," 
Said Mary, Mother of Jesus — 
Tenderest heart in Heaven. 
Now, never a sad-eyed mother 
But may catch the glory afar, 
Since safe in the Lord Christ's bosom 
Are the keys of the gates ajar ; 
Close hid in the dear Christ's bosom; 
And the gates forever ajar! 



<ik$hh 



LITTLE CHARLIE. 

LITTLE presence ! everywhere 
■■■- ?>• We find some touching trace of thee — 
A pencil mark upon the wall 
That " naughty hands " made 
thoughtlessly ; 
And broken toys around the house, 

Where he has left them they have lain, 
Waiting for little busy hands 



That will not come again — 
Will never come again. 

Within the shrouded room below 
He lies cold — and yet we know 

It is not Charlie there ! 
It is not Charlie, cold and white, 
It is the robe, that in his flight, 

He gently cast aside ! 

Our darling hath not died ! 



i . A L D R I C H . 




A CHILD PRAYING. 

^pgltOLD thy little hands in prayer, 
^ly Bow down at thy mother's knee, 

Now thy sunny face is fair. 
Shining through thine auburn hair ; 

Thine eyes are passion-free ; 
And pleasant thoughts, like garlands bind thee 
Unto thy home, yet grief may find thee — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

Now, thy young heart, like a bird, 

Warbles in its summer nest ; 
No evil thought, no unkind word, 
No chilling autumn winds have stirred 

The beauty of thy rest ; 
But winter hastens, and decay 
Shall waste thy verdant home away — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

Thy bosom is a house of glee, 

With gladness harping at the door ; 
While ever, with a joyous shout, 
Hope, the May queen, dances out, 

Her lips with music running o'er ; 
But Time those strings of joy will sever, 
And hope will not dance on for ever — 
Then pray, child, pray 

Now, thy mother's arm is spread 
Beneath thy pillow in the night ; 

And loving feet creep round thy bed, 

And o'er thy quiet face is shed 
The taper's darkened light ; 

But that fond arm will pass away, 
By thee no more those feet will stay — 
Then pray, child, pray ! 

ROBERT ARIS WILI.MOTT. 



136 



SHADOWS ON THE WALL. 



"efir 



LITTLE Bessie wakes at midnight, 
And upon the nursery wall, 
Sees she by the flickering fire light, 
Shadows dancing grim and tall. 

Now they rise and now they beckon, 
Nearer still they seem to come, 

Bessie's blue eyes gaze wide open, 
And her lips are stricken dumb. 

Bessie thinks they are "the witches," 
" Mary said they'd take away 

All the naughty little children, 
And I've not been good to-day. 

" Once I did not mind my mother, 

And I broke the china cup," 
So the little tender conscience 

All the past day's sins sums up. 

Still the dancing shadows waken 

Childhood's grief and childhood's fear> 

And there sink into the pillow 
Many a sob and many a tear ; 

Till the mother, sleeping lightly, 

Just within the open door, 
Wakes and listens for a moment ; 

Hastens barefoot o'er the floor; 

Folds the little weeping maiden 
Close within her loving arms ; 

And upon that tender bosom 
Bessie sobs out her alarms. 



Then the mother, softly smiling, 
Whispers, "All your witches tall, 

Oh, my foolish little Bessie, 
Are but shadows on the wall ! 

" See, the tall ones are the andirons ; 

That the wardrobe ; this the chair ; 
And the shawl upon the sofa 

Makes the face with flowing hair. 

" Has my darling then forgotten, 
When she said her evening prayer, 

How she prayed that God's good angels 
Still might have her in their care ? 

" Sure she knows that the Good Shepherd 
Guards his flock by day and night, 

And the lambs are folded safely, 
In the dark as in the light." 

Soon upon her mother's bosom 

Little Bessie falls asleep, 
Murmuring, as she clings the closer, 

" Pray the Lord my soul to keep." 

And the mother, softly kissing 
The wet eyelids and the hair, 

Tossed back from the snowy forehead, 
Clasps her close in voiceless prayer. 

That the Love which gave her darling, 
Still may keep till dawns the day 

When earth's haunting fears are over, 
And the shadows flee away. 



_D 



4&M& Q> 

j f I ERE with an infant, joyful sponsors come, 
P | Then bear the new-made Christian to his home 
A few short years and we behold him stand 
To ask a blessing, with his bride in hand : 
A few, still seeming shorter, and we hear 
His widow weeping at her husband's bier : — 
Thus as the months succeed, shall infants take 
Their names ; thus parents shall the child forsake ; 
Thus brides again and bridegrooms blithe shall kneel, 
By love or law compelled their vows to seal. crab be. 

137 



LL. 



Castles in the Fii^e.^ 




ITTING by the fire-light, 

In the twilight gray, 
Building airy castles, 

Bessie, Jack, and May, 
Curly brown and golden 
locks, 
Nestled close together, 
Heeding not the wailing 
winds 
Of November weather. 



Seeing in the wood-fire 

Many a vision rare; 
Tracing in their fancies, 

The future gay and fair. 
Well it is each dreamer 

Sees not down the years 
All his cares and sorrows, 

All his toils and tears. 

" Look ! I see a war-horse, 

Prancing, inky black, 
Don't you see me charging 

Fiercely on his back ? 
Now, again, I'm bowing 

To the loud 'Hurrah!' 
I've come back victorious — 

A hero from the war." 

" See the haughty lady, 

Turning cold away 
From the throng of suitors, 

Who all vainly pray. 
Oh, she will not listen, 

Noble though they be, 
She's waiting for her sailor, 

Sailing o'er the sea." 

Now it is sweet May's turn, 
Peering in the blaze, 

What can see dear blue eyes 
Of the future days ? 



U^>— 



»■ ■ : ■ m » 



" I can see a little urn, 
'Neath a willow tree, 

In a churchyard, all alone, 
That I think's for me." 

Boyish peals of laughter, 

Ring out clear and free, 
" Yes, I see the little urn, 

It's to make the tea. 
I'll come back from battle, 

Bessie from the sea, 
Dearest May shall sit at home, 

And brew us cups of tea." 



PICF&&MS @F MWM@mr. 



t 
fm MONG the beautiful pictures 

[\ That hang on Memory's wall 

^\ \> Is one of a dim old forest, 

* That seemeth best of all ; 

Not for its gnarled oaks olden, 

Dark with the mistletoe ; 
Not for the violets golden 

That sprinkle the vale below ; 
Not for the milk-white lilies, 

That lean from the fragrant ledge, 
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams. 

And stealing their golden edge ; 
Not for the vines on the upland, 

Where the bright red berries rest, 
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip, 

It seemeth to me the best. 

I once had a little brother, 

With eyes that were dark and deep ; 
In the lap of that old dim forest 

He lieth in peace asleep : 
Light as the down of the thistle, 

Free as the winds that blow, 
We roved there the beautiful summers, 

The summers of long ago ; 
But his feet on the hills grew weary, 



138 



PICTURES OF MEMORY. 



And, one of the autumn eves, 
I made for my little brother 

A bed of the yellow leaves. 
Sweetly his pale arms folded 

My neck in a meek embrace, 
As the light of immortal beauty 

Silently covered his face ; 
And when the arrows of sunset 

Lodged in the tree-tops bright, 
He fell, in his saint-like beauty, 

Asleep i>y the gates of light. 
Therefore, of all the pictures 

That hang on Memory's wall, 
The one of the dim old forest 

Seemeth the best of all. 



ALICE CARY 



„ ■ — ■*- 



For the Children. 



COME stand by my knee, little children, 
Too weary for laughter or song; 
The sports of the daylight are over, 

And evening is creeping along; 
The snow-fields are white in the 
moonlight, 
The winds of the winter are chill, 
But under the sheltering roof-tree 
The fire shineth ruddy and still. 

You sit by the fire, little children, 

Your cheeks are ruddy and warm ; 
But out in the cold of the winter 

Is many a shivering form. 
There are mothers that wander for shelter, 

And babes that are pining for bread ; 
Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children, 

From whose tender hand you are fed. 

Come look in my eyes, little children, 
And tell me, through all the long day, 

Have you thought of the Father above us, 
/ho guarded from evil our way ? 

He heareth the cry of the sparrow, 
And careth for great and small ; 

In life and in death, little children, 
His love is the truest of all. 



Now come to your rest, little children, 

And over your innocent sleep, 
Unseen by your vision, the angels 

Their watch through the darkness shall 
keep; 
Then pray that the Shepherd who guideth 

The lambs that He loveth so well 
May lead you, in life's rosy morning, 

Beside the still waters to dwell. 



THE CHILD ASLEEP. 



^JrWEET babe ! true portrait of thy 
^cj§ father's face, 

Sleep on the bosom that thy lips 
have pressed ! 
Sleep, little one ; and closely, gently place 
Thy drowsy eyelid on thy mother's 
breast. 

Upon that tender eye, my little friend, 
Soft sleep shall come, that cometh not to 

me ! 
I watch to see thee, nourish thee, defend ; 
'T is sweet to watch for thee — alone for 

thee! 

His arms fall down; sleep sits upon his 
brow; 
His eye is closed; he sleeps, nor dreams 
of harm. 
Wore not his cheek the apple's ruddy glow, 
Would you not say he slept on Death's 
cold arm? 

Awake, my boy ! I tremble with affright ! 

Awake and chase this fatal thought ! — 
Unclose 
Thine eye but for one moment on the light ! 

Even at the price of thine give me repose ! 

Sweet error !— he but slept— I breathe again. 
Come, gentle dreams, the hour of sleep 
beguile ! 
Oh ! when shall he, for whom I sigh in vain, 
Beside me watch to see thy waking smile? 
clotilde de surville (French.) 
Translation of H. W. Longfellow. 



139 



MY MOTHERS STORIES. 



I RECALL a little verse my mother 
taught me one summer twilight, 
which, she remarked, she had taught the 
older children when they were little like 
me. It was this : 

"Have communion with few, be 
intimate with one, deal justly by 
all, and speak evil of none." 

And then she added cheerfully, "It 
took some time to get your brother to re- 
peat it correctly ; he would say untimate 
for intimate, and justless instead of justly • 
But he learned it correctly at last, and, I 
may add, has never forgotten it. So with 
amusement were mother's good instruc- 
tions blended ; after the pleasant story 
about my brother's childhood it was im- 
possible to forget the text. 

But, alas, I have never taught it to my 
children ; so many papers, books, and 
magazines made expressly for children of 
this generation, hasten the lighting of the 
evening lamp, and the twilight lessons of 
home become fewer. But in them all I 
never read a more comprehensive para- 
graph, and one that would do to put in 
practice in every particular so thoroughly, 
and I hope if it gets into print, not only 
my children, but those of other house- 
holds, will commit it to memory, imbibe 
its spirit, and put it in practice through life. 



DULL BOYS. 




«INES, the stronger they be, the 
more lees they have when they are 
new. Many boys are muddy-headed till 
they be clarified with age, and such after- 
wards prove the best. Bristol diamonds 
are both bright, and squared and pointed 
by nature, and yet are soft and worthless; 



whereas Orient ones in India are rough 
and rugged naturally. Hard, rugged and 
dull natures of youth, acquit themselves 
afterwards the jewels of the country, and 
therefore their dullness at first is to be 
borne with, if they be diligent. That 
schoolmaster deserves to be beaten him- 
self who beats nature in a boy for a fault, 
and I question whether all the whipping 
in the world can make their parts which 
are naturally sluggish, rise one minute 
before the hour nature has appointed. 

DR. THOMAS FULLER. 



Jl Jlemarkable JJaby, 

IT was the peculiarity of this baby to 
be always cutting teeth. Whether 
they never came, or whether they 
came and went away again is not in evi- 
dence; but it had certainly cut enough, 
on the showing of its mother, to make a 
handsome dental provision for the sign of 
the Bull and Mouth. All sorts of objects 
were impressed for the rubbing of its 
gums, notwithstanding that it always car- 
ried, dangling at its waist, (which was 
immediately under its chin,) a bone ring, 
large enough to have represented the 
rosary of a young nun. Knife-handles, 
umbrella-tops, the heads of walking sticks 
selected from the stock, the fingers of the 
family, nutmeg-graters, crusts, the handles 
of doors, and the cool knobs of the tops 
of pokers, were among the commonest in- 
struments indiscriminately applied for the 
baby's relief. The amount of electricity 
that must have been rubbed out of it in a 
week, is not to be calculated. Still, its 
mother always said, "It was coming through, 
and then the child would be herself" and 
still it never did come through and the 
child continued to be somebody else. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



140 



goffering* of Childhood. 




$HE sufferings of a bashful boy ! 
Can torture chamber be more 
dreadful than the juvenile 
party, the necessary parade of 
the Christmas dinner, to a shy boy ! I 
have sometimes taken the hand of such a 
one, and have found it cold and clammy; 
desperate was the struggle of that young 
soul, afraid of he knew not what, caught 
by the machinery of society, which man- 
gled him at every point, crushed every 
nerve, and filled him with faintness and 
fear. How happy he might have been 
with that brood of young puppies in the 
barn, or the soft rabbits in their nest of 
hay ! How grand he was paddling his 
poor, leaky boat down the rapids, jump- 
ing into the river, and dragging it with 
his splendid strength over the rocks ! 
Nature and he were friends ; he was not 
afraid of her ; she recognized her child 
and greeted him with smiles. The young 
animals loved him, and his dog looked up 
into his fair blue eyes, and recognized his 
king. But this creature must be tamed ; 
he must be brought into prim parlors, 
and dine with propriety ; he must dress 
himself in garments which scratch, and 
pull, and hurt him ; boots must be put on 
his feet which pinch ; he must be clean — 
terrible injustice to a faun who loves to 
roll down-hill, to grub for roots, to follow 
young squirrels to their lair, and to polish 
old guns rather than his manner. 

And then the sensitive boy, who has a 
finer grain than the majority of his fel- 
lows, suddenly thrown in the pandemo- 
nium of a public school ! Nails driven 
into the flesh could not inflict such pain as 
such a one suffers; and the scars remain. 
One gentleman told me, in mature life, 
that the loss of a toy stolen from him in 



childhood still rankled. How much of 
the infirmity of human character may be 
traced to the anger, the sense of wounded 
feeling, engendered by a wrong done in 
childhood when one is helpless to avenge ! 

All this may be called the necessary 
hardening process, but I do not believe in 
it. We have learned how to temper iron 
and steel, but we have not learned how to 
treat children. Could it be made a money- 
making process, like the Bessemer, I be- 
lieve one could learn how to temper the 
the human character. Our instincts of 
intense love for our children are not 
enough ; we should study it as a science. 
The human race is very busy ; it has to 
take care of itself, and to feed its young ; 
it must conquer the earth — perhaps it has 
not time to study Jim and Jack and 
Charley, and Mary and Emily and Jane, 
as problems. But, if it had, would it not 
perhaps pay ? There would be fewer 
criminals. 

Many observers recommend a wise 
neglect — not too much inquiry, but a 
judicious surrounding of the best influ- 
ences, and then — let your young plant 
grow up. Yes; but it should be a very 
wise neglect — it should be a neglect which 
is always on the watch lest some insidious 
parasite, some unnoticed but strong bias 
of character, take possession of the child, 
and mould or ruin him. Of the ten boys 
running up yonder hill, five will be fail- 
ures, two will be moderate successes, two 
will do better, one will be great, good and 
distinguished. If such are the terrible 
statistics — and I am told that they are so 
— who is to blame ? Certainly the parent 
or guardian, or circumstance — and what is 
circumstance ? 



APPLETON'S JOURNAL. 



141 



THE dew was falling fast, the stars began " What is it thou wouldst seek ? What is want- 
to blink ; ing to thy heart ? 
I heard a voice ; it said, " Drink, pretty Tii y limbs, are they not strong ? And beautiful 
creature, drink ! " thou art. 
And, looking o'er the hedge, before me I espied This grass is tender grass ; these flowers they 
A snow-white mountain-lamb with a maiden have no peers ; 

at its side. And tna t green corn all day is rustling in thy 

ears! 
Nor sheep nor kine were near ; the lamb was 

all alone, '" If the sun be shining hot, do but stretch thy 

And by a slender cord was tethered to a stone ; woollen chain — 

With one knee on the grass did the little This beech is standing by, its covert thou canst 

maiden kneel, gain ; 

While to that mountain-lamb she gave its For rain and mountain-storms — the like thou 

evening meal. need'st not fear ; 

The rain and storm are things that scarcely 

The lamb, while from her hand he thus his can come here. 

supper took, 

Seemed to feast with head and ears ; and his » R e st, little young one, rest ; thou hast forgot 

tail with pleasure shook. the (j a y 

" Drink, pretty creature, drink ! " she said, in when my father found thee first in places far 

such a tone away ; 

That I almost received her heart into my own. Many flocks were on the hills, but thou wert 

, ■-, -, „ owned by none, 

'T was little Barbara Lewthwaite, a child of And thy mQther from thy gide for evermore 

beauty rare! was gone. 
I watched them with delight: they were a 

lovely pair. « jj e t 00 k thee in his arms, and in pity brought 

Now with her empty can the maiden turned t ^ home • 

awa y > . A blessed day for thee ! Then whither wouldst 

But ere ten yards were gone, her footsteps did thou roam ? 

she stay. A faithful nurse thou hast— the dam that did 

Bight towards the lamb she looked ; and from TT . y x . . . • , , . 

, t , Upon the mountain-tops no kinder could have 

a shady place ^ 

I unobserved could see the workings of her 

face. 

If nature to her tongue could measured num- " Thou know'st that twice a day I have brought 

bers brino- • tnee m tn ^ can 

Thus, thought I, to her lamb that little maid Fresh water from the brook > as clear as ever 

might sing : — ran > 

And twice in the day, when the ground is wet 

"What ails thee, young one? what? Why with dew, 

pull so at thy cord ? I bring thee draughts of milk — warm milk it 

Is it not well with thee? well both for bed and is, and new. 

board ? 

Thy plot of grass is soft, and green as grass " Thy limbs will shortly be twice as stout as 

can be ; they are now ; 

Best, little young one, rest; what is 't that Then I '11 yoke thee to my cart like a pony in 

aileth thee ? the plough. 

142 



THE PET LAMB. 



My playmate thou shalt be; and when the 

wind is cold, 
Our hearth shall be thy bed, our house shall 

be thy fold. 

"It will not, will not rest! — Poor creature, can 

it be 
That 't is thy mother's heart which is working 

so in thee ? 
Things that I know not of belike to thee are 

dear, 
And dreams of things which thou canst neither 

see nor hear. 

" Alas, the mountain-tops that look so green 

and fair ! 
I 've heard of fearful winds and darkness that 

come there ; 
The little brooks, that seem all pastime and 

all play, 
When they are angry roar like lions for their 

prey. 

" Here thou need'st not dread the raven in the 

sky; 
Night and day thou art safe — our cottage is 

hard by 
Why bleat so after me? Why pull so at thy 

chain? 
Sleep — and at break of day I will come to thee 

again ! " 

— As homeward through the lane I went with 

lazy feet, 
This song to myself did I oftentimes repeat ; 
And it seemed, as I retraced the ballad line 

- by line, 
That but half of it was hers, and one-half of 

it was mine- 

Again and once again, did I repeat the song ; 
•'Nay," said I, "more than half to the damsel 

must belong, 
For she looked with such a look, and she spake 

with such a tone, 
That I almost received her heart into my own." 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



LITTLE Miss Meddlesome, scattering 
crumbs 
Into the library noiselessly comes — 
Twirls off her apron, tilts open some books, 
And into a work-basket rummaging, looks. 



Out go the spools spinning over the floor, 
Beeswax and needle-case stepped out before ; 
She tosses the tape-rule and plays with the 

floss, 
And says to herself, "Now won't mamma be 

cross !" 

Little Miss Meddlesome climbs to the shelf, 
Since no one is looking, and, mischievous elf, 
Pulls down the fine vases, the cuckoo clock 

stops, 
And sprinkles the carpet with damaging drops. 

She turns over the ottoman, frightens the bird, 
And sees that the chairs in a medley are 

•stirred; 
Then creeps on the sofa, and, all in a heap, 
Drops out of her frolicsome mischief asleep. 

But here comes the nurse, who is shaking her 
head, 

And frowns at the Mischief asleep on her bed ; 

But let's hope when Miss Meddlesome's slum- 
ber is o'er 

She may wake from good dreams and do 
mischief no more. 

JOEL BENTON. 



FATHER IS COMING ! 

NAY, do not close the shutters, child ; 
For, far along the lane, 
The little window looks, and he, 
Can see it shining plain ; 
I've heard him say he loves to mark 
The cheerful fire-light in the dark. 

I know he's coming by this sign, 

That baby's almost wild ; 
See how lie laughs, and crows, and stares — 

Heaven bless the merry child ; 
He's father's self in face and limb, 
And father's heart is strong in him. 

Hark ! hark ! I hear his footsteps now ; 

He's through the garden-gate ; 
Run, little Bess, and ope the door, 

And do not let him wait ; 
Shout, baby, shout ! and clap thy hands, 
For father on the threshold stands. 

MARY HOWITT, 



143 




APPY season of child- 
hood ! Kind nature, 
that art to all a boun- 
tiful mother ; that vis- 
itest the poor man's 
hut with auroral radi- 
and for thy 



ance 



nurseling hast provid- 
ed a soft swathing of love and infinite 
hope, wherein he waxes and slumbers, 
danced-round (umgaukelt) by sweetest 
dreams ! If the paternal cottage shuts us 
in, its roof still screens us ; with a father 
we have as yet a prophet, priest and king, 
and an obedience that makes us free. The 
young spirit has awakened out of eternity, 
and knows not what we mean by time ; as 
yet time is no fast-hurrying stream, but a 
sportful, sunlit ocean ; years to the child 
are as ages : ah ! the secret of vicissitude, 
of that slower or quicker decay and cease- 
less down-rushing of the universal world 
fabric, from the granite mountain to the 
man or day-moth, is yet unknown ; and 
in a motionless universe, we taste, what 
afterwards in this quick-whirling universe 
is forever denied us, the balm of rest. 
Sleep on, thou fair child, for thy long 
rough journey is at hand ! A little while, 
and thou too shalt sleep no more, but thy 
very dreams shall be mimic battles ; thou 
too, with old Arnauld, wilt have to say in 
stern patience : "Rest? Rest? Shall I 
not have all eternity to rest in?" Celes- 
tial Nepenthe ! though a Pyrrhus conquer 
empires, and an Alexander sack the world, 



he finds thee not; and thou hast once 
fallen gently, of thy own accord, on the 
eyelids, on the heart of every mother's 
child. For as yet, sleep and waking are 
one: the fair life-garden rustles infinite 
around, and everywhere is dewy fragrance, 
and the budding of hope ; which budding, 
if in youth, too frostnipt, it grow to flow- 
ers, will in manhood yield no fruit, but a 
prickly, bitter-rinded stone fruit, of which 
the fewest can find the kernel. 

THOMAS CARLYLE. 



_2G_ 



^CRSDLE + SONG^ 



|LEEP my baby beside the fire, 
Sleep, child, sleep, 
Winds are wailing, nigher and nigher, 
Waves are raising, higher and higher, 

Sleep, child, sleep, 
While thy father out on the sea, 
Toils all night for thee and me. 

Sleep, my baby content and blest, 

Sleep, child, sleep ; 
Whether the heart in thy mother's breast 
Be light or heavy — so best ! so best ! 

Sleep, child, sleep, 
While thy father out on the sea, 
Toils all night for thee and me. 



144 




ialii ltJ.Mt% l|e|ttitttt €t»il» 




LIGHTER scarf of richer fold 
The morning flushed upon our sight, 
And Evening trimmed her lamps of gold 

From deeper springs of purer light ; 
And softer drips bedewed the lea, 
And whiter blossoms veiled the tree, 
And bluer waves danced on the sea 
When baby Zulma came to be ! 

The day before, a bird had sung 

Strange greetings on the roof and flown; 

And Night's immaculate priestess flung 
A diamond from her parted zone 

Upon the crib beside the bed, 

Whereunto, as the doctor said, 

A king or queen would soon be led 

By some sweet Ariel overhead. 

Ere yet the sun had crossed the line 

When we at Aries' double bars, 
Behold him, tempest-beaten, shine 

In stormy Libra's triple stars ; 
What time the hillsides shake with corn 
And boughs of fruitage laugh unshorn 
And cheery echoes wake the morn 
To gales of fragrance harvest-born 

In storied spots of vernal flame 

And breezy realms of tossing shade, 
The tripping elves tumultuous came 

To join the fairy cavalcade ; 
Erom blushing chambers of the rose, 
And bowers the lily's buds enclose, 
And nooks and dells of deep repose, 
Where human sandal never goes, 

The rabble poured its motley tide ; 

Some upon airy chariots rode, 
By cupids showered from side to side, 

And some the dragon-fly bestrode ; 
While troops of virgins, left and right, 
Like microscopic trails of light, 
The sweeping pageant made as bright 
As beams a rainbow in its flight ! 



It passed ; the bloom of purple plums 

Was rippled by trumpets rallying long 
O'er beds of pink's and dwarfish drums 

Struck all the insect world to song ; 
The milkmaid caught the low refrain, 
The ploughman answered to her strain, 
And every warbler of the plain 
The ringing chorus chirped again ! 

Beneath the sunset's faded arch, 

It formed and filed within our porch, 
With not a ray to guide its march 

Except the twilight's silver torch ; 
And thus she came from clouds above, 
With spirits of the glen and grove, 
A flower of grace, a cooing clove, 
A shrine of prayer and star of love ! 

A queen of hearts ! — her mighty chains 
Are beads of coral round her strung, 
And, ribbon-diademed, she reigns, 

Commanding in an unknown tongue ; 
The kitten spies her cunning ways, 
The patient cur romps in her plays, 
And glimps'es of her earlier days 
Are seen in picture-books of fays. 

To fondle all things doth she choose, 
And when she gets, what some one sends, 

A trifling gift of tinny shoes, 

She kisses both as loving friends ; 

For in her eyes this orb of care, 

Whose hopes are heaps of frosted hair, 

Is but a garland, trim and fair, 

Of cherubs twining in the air. 

0, from a soul suffused with tears 

Of trust thou mayst be spared the thorn 
Which it has felt in other years, — 
Across the morn our Lord was born, 
I waft thee blessings ! At thy side 
May his invisible seraphs glide ; 
And tell thee still, what'er betide, 
For thee, for thine, for all, He died ! 



145 



AUGUSTUS JULIAN REQUIER. 

10 



tITTlE FEET, 






^) 




WO little feet, so small that both may nestle 

In one caressing hand, — 
Two tender feet upon the untried border 

Of life's mysterious land. 

Dimpled and soft, and pink as peach-tree blossoms 

In April's fragrant days, 
How can they walk among the briery tangles, 

Treading the world's rough ways '? 

These rose- white feet along with the doubtful future, 

Must bear a mothers load ; 
Alas ! since Woman has the heaviest burden, 

And walks the harder road. 

Love for a while will make the path before them 

All dainty, smooth and fair, — 
Will cull away the brambles, letting only 

The roses blossom there. 

But when the mother's watchful eyes are shrouded 

Away from sight of men, 
And these dear feet are left without her guiding, ' 

Who shall direct them then ? 

How will they be .allured, betrayed, deluded, 

Poor little untaught feet ! 
Into what dreary mazes will they wander, 

What dangers will they meet ? 

Will they go stumbling blindly in the darkness 

Of sorrow's tearful shades? 
Or find the upland slopes of Peace and Beauty, 

Whose sunlight never fades ? 

Will they go toiling up ambition's summit, 

The common world above ? 

Or in some nameless vale, securely sheltered, 
Walk side by side with Love ? 



146 



'LITTLE FEET" Continued.^ 



Some feet there be which walk Life's track unwounded 
Which find but pleasant ways : 

Some hearts there be to which this life is only 
A round of happy days. 

But these are few. Far more there are who wander 
"Without a hope or friend, — 

Who find their journey full of pains and losses 
And long to reach the end. 

How shall it be with her, the tender stranger 
Fair-faced and gentle-eyed, 

Before whose unstained feet the worlds rude highway 
Stretches so fair and wide ? 

Ah who may read the future? For our darling 
We crave all blessings sweet, 

And pray that He who feeds the crying ravens 
Will guide the baby's feet. 



FLORENCE PERCY. 



finram of SIfHblpxft, 



CX'. HE cows are lowing along the lane, 

The sheep to the fold have come, 
And the mother looks from the cottage door, 
To see how the night comes over the moor, 
And calls the children home. 

Their feet are bare in the dusty road, 
Their cheeks are tawny and red, 
They have waded the shallow below the mill, 
They have gathered wild roses up the hill, 
A crown for each tangled head. 

The days will come and the days will go, 

And life hath many a crown, 
But none that will press upon manhood's brow, 
As light as the roses resting now 

On the children's foreheads brown. 






T /.ITTLE children, young and aged, 
•*— * Bear the blessing up ! 
Pour around the life elixir 
From your golden cup. 

Love is the divine restorer 
Of the souls of men ; 

This the new perpetual Eden 
We must seek again. 

Love is the eternal childhood ; 

Hither all must come, 
Who the kingdom would inherit 

Of the heavenly home. 



147 



^tsdy 



-*- 




: 'i'#0 ! the jolly sailors, 

Lounging into port! 
Heave ahead, my hearties — 

That's your lively sort ! 
Splendid sky above us, 

Merrily goes the gale. 
Stand by to launch away 

Eag and paper sail ! 

Archie owns a schooner, 
Jack a man-o'-war, 

Joe a clipper A 1 
Named the Morning Star; 

Charlie sails a match-box, 
Dignified a yawl ; 

Breakers on the lee shore- 
Look out for a squall ! 

Now we're bound for China — 

That's across the pond ; 
Then we go a-cruising 

Many a mile beyond. 
Man-o'-war is watching 

A rakish-looking craft — 
Kerchunk ! goes a bullfrog 

From his rushy raft. 

There's a fleet of lillies 

We go scudding round, — 
Bumblebees for sailors, — 

And they're fast aground. 
Here's a drowning fly 

In her satin dress. 
All hands, about ship ! 

Signals of distress. 

Argosies of childhood, 

Laden down with joys, 
Gunwale-deep with treasures ! 

Happy sailor boys, 
May your merry ventures 

All their harbors win, 
And upon life's stormy sea 

Every ship come in. 

— GEO. COOPER. 



Vi NOTHEE little form asleep, 
And a little spirit gone ; 
Another little voice is hushed, 
And a little angel born. 
Two little feet are on the way 

To the home beyond the skies, 
And our hearts are like the void that'comes 
When a strain of music dies ! 

A pair of little baby shoes, 

And a lock of golden hair ; 
The toys our little darling loved, 

And the dress she used to wear ; 
The little grave in the shady nook, 

Where the flowers love to grow; 
And these are all of the little hope 

That came three years ago ! 

The birds will sit on the branch above, 

And sing a requiem 
To the beautiful little sleeping form 

That used to sing to them ; 
But never again with the little lips 

To their songs of love reply, 
For that silvery voice is blended with 

The minstrelsy on high ! 

'KNICKERBOCKER, 
— ..*&.^$.$~.<>.— 

TOUCH NOT. 



'OUCH not the tempting cup, my boy ; 

Though urged by friend or foe ; 
Dare when the tempter urges most, 

Dare nobly say. No — No ! 
The joyous angel from on high 
Shall tell your soul the reason why. 

Touch not the tempting cup, my boy ! 

In righteousness be brave ; 
Take not the first, a single step, 

Towards a drunkard's grave ; 
The widow's groan, the orphan's sigh 
Shall tell your soul the reason why. 




148 



I AM all alone in my chamber now, 

W And the midnight hour is near, 

"' And the fagot's crack and the clock's dull tick 

Are the only sounds I hear ; 
And over my soul, in its soltitude, 

Sweet feelings of sadness glide ; 
For my heart and my eyes are full when I think 

Of the little boy that died. 

I went one night to my father's house — 

Went home to the dear ones all, — ■ 
And softly I opened the garden gate, 

And softly the door of the hall ; 
My mother came out to meet her son, 

She kissed me and then she sighed, 
And her head fell on my neck, and she wept 

For the little boy that died. 

And when I gazed on his innocent face, 

As still and cold he lay, 
And thought what a lovely child he had been 

And how soon he must decay, 
" death, thou lovest the beautiful," 

In the woe of my spirit I cried ; 
For sparkled the eyes, and the forehead was fair, 

Of the little boy that died ! 

Again I will go to my father's house, — 

Go home to the dear ones all, — 
And sadly I'll open the garden gate, 

And sadly the door of the hall ; 
I shall meet my mother, but nevermore 

With her darling by her side, 
But she'll kiss me and sigh and weep again 

For the little boy that died. 

I shall miss him when the flowers come 

In the garden where he played ; 
I shall miss him more by the fireside, 

When the flowers have all decayed; 
I shall see his toys and his empty chair, 

And the horse he used to ride ; 
And they will speak, with a silent speech, 

Of the little boy that died. 

I shall see his little sister again 
With her playmates about the door, 

A.nd I'll watch the children in their sports, 
As I never did before ; 



And if in the group I see a child 
That's dimpled and laughing-eyed, 

I'll look and see if it may not be 
The little boy that died. 

We shall all go home to our Father's house, — 

To our Father's house in the skies, 
Where the hope of our souls shall have no blight, 

And our love no broken ties ; 
We shall roam on the bank of the River of Peace 

And bathe in its blissful tide : 
And one of the joys of our heaven shall be 

The little boy that died. 



j. d. 



ROBINSON. 



NoB&bjrm theEouse. 



N 



baby in the house, I know, 
'T is far too nice and clean. 
No toys, by careless fingers strewn, 
Upon the floors are seen. 



No finger-marks are on the panes, 

No scratches on the chairs ; 
No wooden men set up in rows, 

Or marshalled off in pairs ; 

No little stockings to be darned, 

All ragged at the toes ; 
No pile of mending to be done, 

Made up of baby-clothes ; 

No little troubles to be soothed ; 

No little hands to fold ; 
No grimy fingers to be washed ; 

No stories to be told ; 

No tender kisses to be given ; 

No nicknames, " Dove " and " Mouse;" 
No merry frolics after tea, — 

No baby in the house ! 



CLARA G. DOLLIVER. 



149 




wm 




i 



ITTLE Ellie sits alone 

'Mid the beeches of a meadow, 
By a stream-side on the grass, 
And the trees are showering down 
Doubles of their leaves in shadow 
On her shining hair and face. 



She has thrown her bonnet by, 
And her feet she has been dipping 

In the shallow water's flow. 

Now she holds them nakedly 
In her hands all sleek and dripping, 

While she rocketh to and fro. 

Little Ellie sits alone, 
And the smile she softly uses 

Fills the silence like a speech, 

While she thinks what shall be done, 
And the sweetest pleasure chooses 

For her future within reach. 



" But my lover will not prize 
All the glory that he rides in, 

When he gazes in my face. 

He will say, '0 love, thine eyes 
Build the shrine my soul abides in, 

And I kneel here for thy grace.' 

" Then, ay, then— he shall kneel low, 
With the red-roan steed a-near him, 
Which shall seem to understand, — 
Till I answer, ' Rise and go ! 
For the world must love and fear him 
Whom I gift with heart and hand. ' 

" Then he will arise so pale, 
I shall feel my own hps tremble 

With a yes I must not say, 

Nathless maiden brave, ' Farewell, ' 
I will utter, and dissemble — 

' Light to-morrow with to-day,' 



Little Ellie, in her smile, 
Chooses, ..." I will have a lover, 

Riding on a steed of steeds ! 

He shall love me without guile, 
And to him I will discover 

The swan's nest among the reeds. 



" And the steed shall be red-roan. 
And the lover shall be noble, 

With an eye that takes the breath ; 

And the lute he plays upon 
Shall strike ladies into trouble, 

As his sword strikes men to death. 

" And the steed it shall be shod 
All in silver, housed in azure, 

And the mane shall swim the wind ; 

And the hoofs along the sod 
Shall flash onward and keep measure, 

Till the shepherds look behind. 



" Then he'll ride among the hills 
To the wide world past the river, 

There to put away all wrong, 

To make straight distorted wills, 
And to empty the broad quiver 

Which the wicked bear along. 

"Three times shall a young foot-page 
Swim the stream and climb the mountain 

And kneel down beside my feet : 

' Lo, my master sends this gage, 
Lady, for thy pity's counting ! 

What will thou exchange for it?' 

" And the first time I will send 
A white rosebud for a guerdon, — 

And the second time, a glove ; 

But the third time I may bend 
From my pride, and answer, ' Pardon 

If he comes to take my love.' 



150 



ROMANCE OF A SWAN'S NEST. 



"Then the young foot-page will run — 
Then my lover "will ride faster, 

Till he kneeleth at my knee : 

' I am a duke's eldest son ! 
Thousand serfs do call me master, — 

But, Love, I love but thee /' 



Little Ellie, with her smile 
Not yet ended, rose up gayly, 

Tied the bonnet, donned the shoe, 

And went homeward, round a mile, 
Just to see, as she did daily, 

What more eggs were with the two. 



" He will kiss me on the mouth 
Then, and lead me as a lover 

Through the crowds that praise his deeds 

And, when soul-tied by one troth, 
Unto him I will discover 

That swan's nest among the reeds." 

Ellie went home sad and slow, 
If she found the lover ever, 

With his red-roan steed of steeds, 
Sooth I know not ; but I know 
She could never show him — never 
That swan's nest among the reeds ! 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



Pushing through the elm-tree copse, 
Winding up the stream, light-hearted, 

"Where the osier pathway leads — 

Past the boughs she stoops — and stops. 
Lo, the wild swan had deserted — 

And a rat had gnawed the reeds. 





m aij,i,§wi® ii^wifc 




RS BIRD slowly opened the drawer. There were 
little coats of mauy a form and pattern, piles of 
aprons, and rows of small stockings ; and even a 
pair of little shoes, worn and rubbed at the toes, 
were peeping from the folds of a paper. There 
was a toy, horse and wagon, a top, a ball — memor- 
ials gathered with many a tear, and many a heart-break ! She sat down by the 
drawer, and leaning her head on her hands over it, wept till the tears fell through 
her fingers into the drawer. And oh, mother that reads this, has there never been in 
your house a drawer, or a closet, the opening of which has been to you like the 
opening again of a little grave. 



MRS. H. B. STOWI, 



She <3<aulU of 



n. 



IT does not do to be always too keen-sighted, or to appear to be so, to little fits of 
Avilfulness. Perhaps there is a struggle in the child's mind between the wish 
to be good and the temptation to be naughty. Have we never such struggles our- 
selves? Would not a harsh word terminate the conflict in favor of wrong; while a 
smile, a look of kindly encouragement, will strengthen the feeble wish to do right '? 
If we have felt temptation ourselves, let us pity and aid the little creatures, even as 
we are taught that our Saviour, " in that he himself suffered being tempted, he is able 
to succor them that are tempted." m 

151 



PUHAN. 



MWMSB ? 8 W4fCi. 






t 



FROM THE GERMAN. 



HE moon it shines, 

My darling whines; 
The clock strikes twelve : — God cheer 
The sick both far and near. 




God knoweth all; 

Mousy nibbles in the wall ; 
The clock strikes one : — like day 
Dreams o'er thy pillow play. 

The matin — bell 

Wakes the nun in convent cell ; 
The clock strikes two : — they go 
To choir in a row. 

The wind it blows, 

The cock he crows ; 
The clock strikes three : — the wagoner 
In his straw bed begins to stir. 

The steed he paws the floor, 

Breaks the stable door ; 
The clock strikes four ; — 'tis plain 
The coachman sifts his grain 

The swallows laugh, the still air shakes, 

The sun awakes ; 
The clock strikes five : — the traveller must be gone, 
He puts his stockings on. 

The hen is clacking, 

The ducks are quacking ; 
The clock strikes six : — awake, arise, 
Thou lazy hag, come, ope' thy eyes. 

Quick to the bakers run ; 

The rolls are done ; 
The clock strikes seven : — 
'Tis time the milk were in the oven. 

Put in some butter, do, 

And some fine sugar too, 
The clock strikes eight : — 
Now bring my baby's porridge straight. 

Translated by CHARLES T. BROOKS. 
152 





TAKE CARE OF THE CHILDREN. 




ANG me all the thieves in Gib- 
bet Street to-morrow, and the 
place will be crammed with 
fresh tenants in a week ; but 
catch me up the young thieves from the 
gutter and the door steps ; take Jonathan 
Wild from the breast ; send Mrs. Sheppard 
to Brideswell, but take hale young Jack 
out of her arms ; teach and wash me this 
unkempt young vicious colt, and he will 
run for the Virtue Stake yet; take the 
young child, the little lamb, before the 
great Jack Sheppard ruddles him and 
folds him for his own black flock in 
Hades ; give him some soap, instead of 
whipping for stealing a cake of brown 
Windsor; teach him the Gospel, instead 
of sendine; him to the treadmill for hunt- 
ing chapels and purloining prayer books 
out of pews ; put him in the way of filling 
shop tills, instead of transporting him 
when he crawls on his hands and knees to 
empty them ; let him know that he has a 
bodv fit and made for something better 



than to be kicked, bruised, chained, pinched 
with hunger, clad in rags or prison gray, 
or mangled with gaoler's cat; let him 
know that he has a soul to be saved. In 
God's name, take care of the children, some- 
body ; and there will soon be an oldest in- 
habitant in Gibbet Street, and never a new 
one to succeed him. 

HOUSEHOLD WORDS. 



W- NEVER dared hope much from those 
*j||» great beginnings of intellect and of 
memory, which are nevertheless so much 
admired in children. I know well that 
they must first come to their strength, and 
if those things show themselves earlier, it 
is not the better for it. 



BISHOP HAL L. 



J i^Wef to a Child's Quezon. ~^f 

O you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the dove, 
The linnet and the thrush say "I love and I love !" 
In the winter they're silent, the wind is so strong ; 
What it says I do not know, but it sings a loud song. 
But green leaves and blossoms and sunny warm weather, 
And singing and loving, all come back together. 
But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
The green fields below him, the blue sky above. 
That he sings and he sings, and for ever sings he, 
" I love my love, and my love loves me." 



153 



utTBI BATTLS OF UFZ.k^ 



forth in the battle of life, my boy, 

Go while it is called to-day ; 
For the years go out and th e years come in, 
Regardless of those who may lose or win — 
Of those who may work or play. 

And the troops march steadily on, my boy, 

To the army gone before ; 
You may hear the sound of their falling feet, 
Going down to the river where the two worlds 
meet; 

They go to return no more. 

There is room for you in the ranks, my boy, 

And duty, too, assigned ; 
Step into the front with cheerful grace — 
Be quick, or another may take your place, 

And you may be left behind. 

There is work to be done by the way, my boy, 

That you never can tread again ; 
Work for the loftiest, lowliest men — 
Work for the plow, adze, spindle, and pen ; 

Work for the hands and the brain. 



The Serpent will follow your steps, my boy, 

To lay for your feet a snare ; 
And pleasure sits in her fairy bowers, 
With garlands of poppies and lotus flowers 

Enwreathing her golden hair. 

Temptations will wait by the way, my boy, 

Temptations without and within ; 
And spirits of evil, in robes as fair 
As the holiest angels in Heaven wear, 
Will lure you to deadly sin. 

Then put on the armor of God, my boy, 

In the beautiful days of youth ; 
Put on the helmet, breast-plate, and shield, 
And the sword that the feeblest arm may wield 

In the cause of Right and Truth. 

And go to the Battle of Life, my boy, 
With the peace of the Gospel shod, 
And before High Heaven do the best you can 
For the great reward, for the good of man, 
For the Kingdom and crown of God. 



% PlpttHfr's Jlacrafke. 



LniflJiiiiE Boots. 



THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, 
And pathless was the dreary wild, 
And mid the cheerless hours of night 
A mother wandered with her child : 
As through the drifting snow she pressed, 
The babe was sleeping on her breast. 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifting snow : 

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone. 

''Oh God!" she cried in accents wild, 

'If I must perish, save my child, !" 

She stripped her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

A.nd round the child she wrapped the vest, 
And smiled to think her babe was warm. 

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 

And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveller passed by, 
And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 

The frost of death was in her eye, 
Her cneek was cold and hard and pale. 

He moved the robes from off the child, — 

The babe looked up and sweetly smiled ! 



^jfOT those I sadly laid away, 



<££-& Wi 



SEBA SMITH. 



'ith little stockings soft and gay, 
That sunless, heart-sick, saddest day, 

I passed beneath the rod ; 
I wipe from them the gathering mould, 
I wonder at their growing old, 
Then think how long the streets of gold 
My little one has trod ! 

To-day a little larger pair 

Are traversing the hall and stair, 

Or somersaulting in the air, 

Are never, never still : 
Down at the heel ! Out at the toes ! 
Mud-covered ! Every mother knows 
How " in-and-out" her dear boy goes, 

Oft chide him as she will. 

But life and strength and glowing health, ' 
Come through those little boots by stealth, 
And willing errands, loves sweet wealth 

At bidding bring us joy. 
Bear with the little boots, I pray ; 
Soon into life they'll walk away, 
And, sitting lone, your heart will say, 

Where is my little boy? 

MRS . L. R. JONES. 



154 



V. 




THE BALD-HEADED TYRANT, 



|Tj|H ! the quietest home on earth had I, 
\P No thought of trouble, no hint of care; 
Like a dream of pleasure the day fled by, 
And Peace had folded her pinions there. 
But one day there joined in our household band 
A bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

Oh, the despot came in the dead of night. 

And no one ventured to ask him why ; 
Like slaves we trembled before his might, 

Our hearts stood still when we heard him cry; 
For never a soul could his power withstand, 
That bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

He ordered us here and he sent us there— 
Though never a word could his small lips 
speak — 

With his toothless gums and his vacant stare, 
And his helpless limbs so frail and weak, 

Till I cried, in a voice of stern command, 

"Go up thou baldhead from No-man's-land!" 

But his abject slaves they turned on me; 

Like the bears in Scripture, they'd rend me 
there, 
The while they worshipped with bended knee 

This ruthless wretch with the missing hair; 
For he rules them all with relentless hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

Then I searched for help in every clime, 
For peace had fled from my dwelling now, 

Till I finally thought of old Father Time, 
And low before him I made my bow. 

''Wilt thou deliver me out of his hand, 

This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land?" 

Old Time he looked with a puzzled stare, 
And a smile came over his features grim, 

"I'll take the tyrant under my care; 
Watch what my hour-glass does to him. 

The veriest humbug that ever was planned 

Is this same bald-head from No-man's-land." 

Old Time is doing his work full well — 

Much less of might does the tyrant wield; 
But, ah ! with sorrow my heart will swell 



And sad tears fall as I see him yield. 
Could I stay the touch of that shriveled hand, 
I would keep the bald-head from No-man's- 
land. 

For the loss of Peace I have ceased to care ; 

Like other vassals, I've learned, forsooth, 
To love the wretch who forgot his hair 

And hurried along without a tooth, 
And he rules me, too, with his tiny hand, 
This bald-headed tyrant from No-man's-land. 

MARY R. VANDYNE. 



<>k 



The period of childhood is y e happiest. 



ef§r 



A Mother to Her Nsw-Born Child. 



SWEET cry ! as sacred as the blessed Hymn 
Sung at Christ's birth by joyful Seraphim! 
Exhausted nigh to death by that dread pain, 
That voice salutes me to dear life again. 
Ah, God! my child; my first, my loving child! 
I have been dreaming of a thing like thee 
Ere since, a babe, upon the mountains wild 
I nursed my mimic babe upon my knee. 

In girlhood I had visions of thee ; love 
Came to my riper youth, and still I clove 
Unto thine image, born within my brain 
So like ! as even there thy germ had lain ! 
My blood! my voice! my thought! my dream 

achieved! 
Oh, till this double life, I have not lived ! 



THOMAS WADE. 



155 



Baby Lcouise. 



* tV o- 





M in love with you, Baby Louise ! 
With your silken hair, and your soft blue eyes, 
And the dreamy wisdom that in them lies, 
And the faint, sweet smile you brought from the skies, 
God's sunshine, Baby Louise. 

When you fold your hands, Baby Louise, 
Your hands, like a fairy's, so tiny and fair, 
W h a pretty, innocent, saint-like air, 
Are you trying to think of some angel-taught prayer. 

You learned above, Baby Louise ? 

I'm in Love with you, Baby Louise ! 
Why, you never raise your beautiful head ! 
Some day, little one, your cheek will grow red 
With a flush of delight to hear the word said, 

" I love you," Baby Louise. 

Do you hear me, Baby Louise ? 
I have sung your praises for nearly an hour, 
And your lashes keep drooping lower and lower, 
And — you've gone to sleep like a weary flower, 

Ungrateful Baby Louise. 



— MARGARET EYTINGE. 



*: 



:* 



fILliI'8 P1AII1 



l«t)NE sweet morning little Willie, 
I Springing from his trundle-bed, 

Bounded to the vine-wreathed window 
And put out his sunny head. 



It was in the joyous spring-time, 
When the sky was soft and fair, 

And the blue-bird and the robin 
Warbled sweetly everywhere. 

In the field the lambs were playing, 
Where the babbling brook ran clear 

To and fro, in leafy tree-tops, 
Squirrels frisked without a fear. 



In his ear his baby-brother 

Baby-wonders tried to speak, 
And the kiss of a fond mother 

Bested on his dimpled cheek. 

Zephyrs from the fragrant lilacs 

Fanned his little rosy face, 
And the heart's ease, gemmed with dewdrops, 

Smiled at him with gentle grace. 

Gliding back with fairy footsteps, 

Willie, dropping on his knees, 
Softly prayed "Dear God, I love you! 

Make it always happy, please ! " 



156 



TIRED of play ! Tired of play ! 
What hast thou done this livelong day ! 
The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
The sun is creeping up the steeple and tree ; 
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves, 
Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
How hast thou spent it, restless one ! 

Playing? But what hast thou done beside 
To tell thy mother at eventide? 
What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven ? 
How with thy faults has duty striven ? 
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and by singing rill? 

There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find thee tired — but not of play ! 
And thou wilt lean, as thou leanest now, 
With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
Well were it then if thine aching brow 
Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 
Well for thee if thy lip could tell 
A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
If thine open hand has relieved distress — 
If thy pity has sprung to wretchedness — 
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
And humbled thy heart with penitence — 
If Nature's voices have spoken with thee 
With her holy meanings eloquently — 
If every creature hath won thy love, 
Prom the creeping worm to the brooding dove — 
If never a sad, low-spoken word 
Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 
Then, when the night steals on, as now 
It will bring relief to thine aching brow 
And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 
Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 

N. P. WILLIS. 



A MOTHER'S JOYS. 



I 



'VE gear enough, I've gear enough, 
I've bonnie bairnies three ; 

Their welfare is a mine of wealth, 
Their love is a crown to me. 



The joys, the dear delights they bring, 

I'm sure I'd not agree 
To change for every worldly good 

That could be given to me. 

Let others flaunt in fashion's ring, 

Seek rank and high degree ; 
I wish them joy with all my heart, 

They're envied not by me. 
I would not give those loving looks, 

The heaven of those smiles, 
To bear the proudest name — to be 

The Queen of Britain's isles. 

My sons are like their father dear, 

And all the neighbors tell 
That my young blue-eyed daughter's just 

The picture of myseP. 
Oh, blessings on my darlings all ! 

They're dear as summers shine, 
My heart runs o'er with happiness 

To think that they are mine. 

At evening, morning, every hour 

I've an unchanging prayer, 
That Heaven would my bairnies bless, 

My hope, my joy, my care. 
I've gear enough, I've gear enough, 

I've bonnie bairnies three ■ 
Their welfare is a mine of wealth, 

Their love a crown to me. 

WILLIAM FERGUSON. 

THE GOLDEN IGE. 



Where children are there is the Golden Age. 

NOVALIS. 

She Sportive Boy. 



HILE childhood reigns, the sportive boy 
Learns only prettily to toy, 
And while he roves from play to play, 
The wanton trifles life away. 

BROOME. 



157 




What Education domprigeg. 



solidate 
religion 



£ IRST there must proceed a way how to discern the natural 
inclinations and capacities of children. Secondly, next 
must ensue culture and furnishment of the mind. 
Thirdly, the moulding of behaviour and decent forms. 
Fourthly, the tempering of affections. Fifthly, the 
quickening and exciting of observation and practical 
judgement. Sixthly, and the last in order, but the 
principal in value, being that which must knit and con- 
all the rest, is the timely instilling of conscientious principles and seeds of 



SIR HENRY WOTTON. 



J he SducaMon of iSfiMdim. 



Children pick up words as pigeons peas : 
And utter them again as God shall please. 




' N anxious mother asked Mrs. 
Barbauld at what age she should 
begin to teach her child to read ? 
" I should much prefer that a child should 
not be able to read before five years of 
age," was the reply. Why then have you 
written books for children of three? 
" Because if young Mammas will be over 
busy, they had better teach in a good way 
than a bad one." I have known clever 
precocious children at three years dunces 
at twelve, and dunces at six particularly 
clever at sixteen. One of the most popu- 
lar authoresses of the present day could 
not read when she was seven. Her mother 
was rather uncomfortable about it, but 
said, that as everybody did learn to read 
with opportunity, she supposed her child 
would do so at last. By eighteen this 
apparently slow genius paid the heavy 
but inevitable debts of her father from 
the profits of her first work, and before 
thirty had published thirty volumes. 



iutu to Jiring Up iphtm 



fRING thy children up in learning 
and obedience, yet without outward 
austerity. Praise them openly, reprehend 
them secretly. Give them good counte- 
nance and convenient maintenance, accord- 
ing to thy ability; otherwise thy life 
will seem their bondage, and what por- 
tion thou shalt leave them at thy death, 
they will thank death for it and not thee. 
And I am persuaded that the foolish 
cockering of some parents, and the over 
stern carriage of others, causeth more 
men and women to take ill courses, than 
their own vicious inclinations. 



LORD BURLEIGH. 



-?..;_ 



Good Life, Long Life. 



I 



HON. MISS MURRAY. 



N small proportion we just beauties see, 
And in short measures life may perfect be. 

BEN JONSON. 



158 




-<r 



MTTU 



9 wsy&- 



L 




TTTLE Home-body is mother's wee pet, 
Fairest and sweetest of Housekeepers yet ; 
Up when the roses in golden light peep, 
Helping her mother to sew and and to sweep. 
Tidy and prim in her apron and gown, 
Brightest of eyes, of the bonniest brown ; 
Tiniest fingers, and needles so fleet, 
Pattern of womanhood, down at my feet ! 

Little home-body is grave and demure, 

Weeps when you speak of the wretched and the poor, 

Though she can laugh in the merriest way 

While you are telling a tale that is gay. 

Lily that blooms in some lone, leafy nook ; 

Sly little hide-away, moss-sided brook ; 

Fairies are fine, where the silver dews fall ; 

Home fairies — these are the. best of them all ! 

GEORGE COOPER. 




hat jjoes little lirdie Sag 






FROM "SEA DREAMS." 



3- 



ADVICE TO CHILDREN. 



tf 



HAT does little birdie say 

In her nest at peep of day? 
Let me fly, says little birdie, 
Mother, let me fly away. 
Birdie, rest a little longer, 
Till the little wings are stronger, 
So she rests a little longer, 
Then she flies away. 

What does little baby say, 
In her bed at peep of day ? 
Baby says, like little birdie, 
Let me rise and fly away. 
Baby sleep a little longer, 
Till the little limbs are stronger, 
If she sleeps a little longer, 
Baby too shall fly away. 



"JO no sinful action, 

Speak no angry word ; 
Ye belong to Jesus, 

Children of the Lord. 

Christ is kind and gentle, 

Christ is pure and true, 
And his little children 

Must be holy too. 

There's a wicked spirit 
Watching round you still 

And he tries to tempt you 
To ail harm and ill. 

But ye must not hear him 
Though 'tis hard for you 

To resist the evil 
And the good to do. 

C. F. ALEXANDER. 



ALFRED TENXYSON. 



159 



- o^fo ,- 



tm 4$Jfa 







»H0 can look at this exquisite 
little creature seated on its 
cushion, and not acknowl- 
edge its prerogative of life 
— that mysterious influence which in spite 
of the stubborn understanding masters the 




mind, sending it back to days long past, 
when care was but a dream, and its most seri- 
ous business, a childish frolic ? But we no 
longer think of childhood as the past, still 
less as an abstraction, we see it embodied 
before us in all its mirth, and fun, and 
glee, and the grave man becomes a 
child, to feel as a child, and to fol- 
low the little enchanter through 
| all its wiles and never ending 

fH labyrinth of pranks. What can be 

real if that is not which so takes 
us out of our present selves that 
the weight of years fall from us 
as a garment ; that the freshness 
of life seems to begin anew, and 
the heart and the fancy, resum- 
ing the first joyous consciousness, 
to launch again into this moving 
world, as on a sunny sea whose 
pliant waves yield to the touch, 
sparkling and buoyant, carry 
them onward in their merry gam- 
bols ? Where all the purposes of 
reality are answered, if there be 
no philosophy in admitting, we 
see no wisdom in disputing it. 



WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 



TflE WID8W TIP CJHLD. 

HOME they brought her warrior 
dead; 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry ; 
All her maidens, watching, said, 
" She must weep, or she will die." 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved, 

Truest friend and noblest foe ; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 



Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stept, 

Took a face-cloth from the face, 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee — 

Like summer tempest came her tears — 
" Sweet my child, I live for thee." 

ALFRED TENNYSON. 



160 



£ 



LL in our marriage garden 

Grew smiling up to God, 
A bonnier flower than ever 

Suckt the green warmth of the sod ; 
0, beautiful unfathomably 

Its little life unfurled ; 
And crown of all things was our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 



From out a balmy bosom 

Our bud of beauty grew ; 
It fed on smiles of sunshine, 

On tears for daintier dew : 
Aye nestling warm and tenderly, 

Our leaves of love were curled 
So close and close about our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

With mystical faint fragrance 

Our house of life she filled ; 
Revealed each hour some fairy tower 

Where winged hopes might build ! 
We saw — though none like us might see — 

Such precious promise pearled 
Upon the petals of our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

But evermore the halo 

Of angel-light increased, 
Like the mystery of moonlight 

That folds some fairy feast, 
Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently 

Our darling bud upcurled, 
And dropt i' the grave — God's lap — our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

Our Rose was but in blossom, 

Our life was but in spring, 
When down the solemn midnight 

We heard the spirits sing, 
"Another bud of infancy 

With holy dews impearled ! " 
And in their hands they bore our wee 

White Rose of all the world. 

You scare could think so small a thing 

Could leave a loss so large ; 
Her little light such shadow fling 

From dawn to sunset's marge. 



In other springs our life may be 
In bannered bloom unfurled, 

But never, never match our wee 
White Rose of all the world. 



GERALD MASSEV 



161 



SWEET BABE. 



P WEET babe ! 

^ She glanced into our Avorld to see 

A sample of our misery ; 

Then turned away her languid eye, 

To drop a tear or two — and die. 

Sweet babe ! 
She tastes of life's bitter cup, 
Refused to drink the portion up ; 
But turned her little head aside, 
Disgusted with the taste and died. 

Sweet babe ! 
She listened for a while to hear 
Our mortal griefs ; then turned her ear 
To angel harps and songs, and cried 
To join their notes celestial — sighed and died.. 

Sweet babe no more, but seraph now ; 
Before the throne behold her bow ; 
To heavenly joys her spirit flies, 
Blest in the triumph of the skies ; 

Adores the grace that brought her there, 
Without a wish without a care, 
That washed her soul in Calvary's stream, 
That shortened life's distressing dream. 

Short pain, short grief, dear babe were thine ; 
Now joys eternal and divine ; 
Yes, thou art fled, and saints a welcome sing : 
Thine infant spirit soars on angel-wing ; 
Our dark affection might have hoped thy stay 
The voice of God has called this child away. 
Like Samuel early in the temple found, 
Sweet rose of Sharon, plant of holy ground, 
Oh ! more than Samuel blest to thee is given, 
The God he served on earth to serve in heaven. 

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM. 
11 



•4MGEL+CMSRLIE.*- 



E came — a beauteous vision, 
| I Then vanished from my sight ; 
His wing one moment cleaving 

The blackness of my night; 
My glad ear caught its rustle, 
Then, sweeping by, he stole 
The dew-drop that his coming 
Had cherished in my soul. 

Oh, he had been my solace 

When grief my spirit swayed, 
And on his fragile being 

Had tender hopes been stayed ; 
Where thought, where feeling lingered, 

His form was sure to glide, 
And in the lone night-watches 

'Twas ever by my side. 

He came ; but as the blossom 

Its petals closes up, 
And hides them from the tempest 

Within its sheltering cup, 
So he his spirit gathered 

Back to his frightened breast, 
And passed from earth's grim threshold, 

To be the Saviour's guest. 

My boy — ah, me ! the sweetness, 

The anguish of that word ! 
My boy, when in strange night-dreams 

My slumbering soul is stirred ; 
When music floats around me, 

When soft lips touch my brow, 
And whisper gentle greetings, 

Oh, tell me, is it thou ? 

I know by one sweet token 

My Charlie is not dead ; 
One golden clue he left me 

As on his track he sped ; 
Were he some gem or blossom, 

But fashioned for to-day, 
My love would slowly perish 

With his dissolving clay. 



Oh, by this deathless yearning, 

Which is not idly given ; 
By the delicious nearness 

My spirit feels to heaven ; 
By dreams that throng my night-sleep, 

By visions of the day, 
By whispers when I'm erring, 

By promptings when I pray ; — 

I know this life so cherished, 

AVhich sprang beneath my heart, 
Which formed of my own being 

So beautiful a part ; 
This precious, winsome creature, 

My unfledged, voiceless dove, 
Lifts now a seraph's pinion, 

And warbles lays of love. 

Oh, I would not recall thee, 

My glorious angel-boy ! 
Thou needest not my bosom, 

Rare bird of light and joy ! 
Here dash I down the tear-drops, 

Still gathering in my eyes ; 
Blest — oh how blest ! — in adding 

A seraph to the skies ! 

— EMILY C. JUDSO\. 



jg the jjUma 



Avtr. 



WILLIE, fold your little hands ; 
Let it drop that soldier toy : 
Look where father's picture stands, — 

Father, who here kissed his boy 
Not two months since — father kind, 
Who this night may — Never mind 
Mother's sob, my Willie dear, 
Call aloud that He may hear 
Who is God of battles, — say, 
" Oh, keep father safe this day 

By the Alma River." 



162 



BY THE ALMA RIVER. 



Ask no more, child. Never heed 
Either Euss, or Frank, or Turk, 

Eight of nations or of creed, 

Chance-poised victory's bloody work : 

Any flag i' the wind may roll 

On thy heights, Sebastopol ! 

"Willie, all to you and me 

Is that spot, where'er it be, 

Where he stands — no other word ! 

Stands — God sure the child's prayer heard — 
By the Alma River. 

"Willie, listen to the bells 

Ringing through the town to-day. 

That's for victory. Ah, no knells 
For the many swept away — 

Hundreds — thousands ! Let us weep, 

We, who need not — just to keep 

Reason steady in my brain 

Till the morning comes again ; 

Till the third dread morning tell 

Who they were that fought and fell 
By the Alma River. 

Come, we '11 lay us down, my child ; 

Poor the bed is, — poor and hard ; 
Yet thy father, far exiled, 

Sleeps upon the open sward, 
Dreaming of us two at home : 

Or beneath the starry dome 
Digs out trenches in the dark, 
Where he buries — Willie, mark ! — 
Where he buries those who died 
Fighting bravely at his side 

By the Alma River. 

Willie, Willie, go to sleep ; 

God will keep us, my boy ; 
He will make the dull hours creep 
Faster, and send news of joy, 
When I need not shrink to meet 
Those dread placards in the street, 
Which for weeks will ghastly stare 
In some eyes — Child, say thy prayer 
Once again, — a different one, — 
Say, " God, thy will be done 

By the Alma River." 

DINAH MARIA MUIOCK CRAIK. 



0)y Beautiful ©hild. 



rDEAUTIFUL child ! by thy mother's knee, 
*-* In the golden future what wilt thou be ? 
Angel or demon, or god sublime, 
"Upas of evil, or flower of time ? 



Dashing, flashing, madly down, 
Weaving of horror a fairy crown ; 

Or, gliding on in a shining track, 

Like the kingly sun that ne'er looks back ? 

Daintiest dreamer that ever smiled ! 

What wilt thou be, my beautiful child ? 

Beautiful child ! in my garden bowers, 
Friend of the butterflies, birds, and flowers ; 
Crystal and pure as the sparkling stream, 
Goodness and truth in thy features beam. 
Brighter, whiter soul than thine 
Never was seen in a mortal shrine. 
My heart thou hast gladdened two sweet years 
With rainbows of hope suffused my tears ; 
Wherever thy sunny smile doth fall, 
The glory of God beams over all. 

Beautiful child ! to thy look is given 
A purity less of earth than heaven, 
With thy tell-tale eyes and prattling tongue, 
I wish thou couldst ever thus be young. 

Tripping, skipping, humming bird, 

Everywhere thy voice is heard ; 
In the garden nooks thou oft art found, 
With flowers thy bosom and neck around ; 
And when at thy prayers, with figure quaint, 
Oh ! how I love thee, my infant saint ! 

Beautiful child ! what thy fate shall be 
Is wisely hidden, perchance, from me. 
A fallen star thou may'st leave my side, 
And sorrow and shame may thee betide : 
Shivering, quivering, through the street, 
Wretched, down-trampled, cursed and beat; 
Ashamed to live, and afraid to die, 
No home, no friend, and a frowning sky. 
Merciful Father ! my brain grows wild ; 
Good angels guard my beautiful child ! 

Beautiful child ! thou may'st soar above, 
A warbling cherub of joy and love ; 
A wave on eternity's mighty sea; 
A blossom on life's immortal tree ; 
Flowering, towering, evermore, 
'Mid vernal airs of the golden shore. 
Oh ! as I gaze on thy sinless bloom, 
And thy radiant face that laughs at gloom, 
I pray God keep thee thus undefiled ; 
I pray Heaven bless my beautiful child. 



W. A. H. S I G O U R N E Y . 



163 






gL^T^L^L^i^'L^iSTSiszra'BJ^-rsja-rajaj^ 




teJEU^JEJE-TE-TEJ 




fl N N I E . 



a — i-V 



«%♦- 



Ji 



,'VE a sweet little pet ; she is up with the lark, 
And at eve she's asleep when the valleys are dark, 
And she chatters and dances the blessed day long, 
Now laughing in gladness, now singing a song. 
She never is silent; the whole summer day 
She is off on the green with the blossoms at play ; 
Now seeking a buttercup, plucking a rose, 
Or laughing aloud at the thistle she blows. 

She never is still ; now at some merry elf 

You'll smile as you watch her, in spite of yourself; 

You may chide her in vain, for those eyes, full of fun, 

Are smiling in mirth at the mischief she's done; 

And whatever you do, that same thing, without doubt, 

Must the mischievous Annie be busied about ; 

She's as brown as a nut, but a beauty to me, 

And there's nothing her keen little eyes cannot see. 

She dances and sings, and has many sweet airs ; 
And to infant accomplishments adding her prayers, 
I have told everything that the darling can do, 
For 'twas only last summer her years numbered two. 
She's the picture of health, and a southern-born thing 
Just as ready to weep as she's ready to sing, 
And I fain would be foe to the lip that hath smiled 
At this wee bit of song of the dear little child. 




164 



<r^9^ "<v S^a 



,«-sg 



CHILDHOOD. 






JEFORE life's sweetest mystery still 
The heart in reverence kneels ; 
The wonder of the primal birth 
The latest mother feels. 

We need love's tender lessons taught 

As only weakness can ; 
God has his small interpreters; 

The child must teach the man. 

We wander wide through evil years, 

Our eyes of faith grow dim ; 
But he is freshest from His hands 

And nearest unto Him ! 



And haply, pleading long with Him 
For sin-sick hearts and cold, 

The angles of our childhood still 
The Father's face behold. 

Of such the kingdom ! Teach thus us, 

Oh Master most divine, 
To feel the deep significance 

Of these wise words of thine ! 

The haughty feet of power shall fail 
Where meekness surely goes ; 

No cunning find the key of heaven, 
No strength its gates unclose. 




Alone to guilelessness and love 
Those gates shall open fall ; 

The mind of pride is nothingness, 
The child-like heart is all. 



JOHN G. WHITTIER. 




= Jhe Gomfort of a Ghild. =- 



<HJ|j|ALL not that man wretched, who, whatever else he suffers as to pain inflicted, 
HHI pleasure denied, has a child for whom he hopes and on whom he dotes. Poverty 
may grind him to the dust, obscurity may cast its darkest mantle over him, the song 
of the gay may be far from his own dwelling, his face may be unknown to his neigh- 
bors, and his voice may be unheeded by those among Avhom he dwells — even pain 
may rack his joints, and sleep flee from his pillow; but he has a gem with which he 
would not part for wealth defying computation, for fame filling a world's ear, for the 
luxury of the hightest health, or for the sweetest sleep that ever sat upon a mortal eye. 



S. T. COLERIDGE. 



•>«#»«;» 



ozfR Dear o/us. 




G 



OD gives us ministers of love, 

Which we regard not being near ; 
Death takes them from us, then we feel 
That angels have been with us here ! 

165 




JAMES ALDRICH. 



-*$£- 



=cT=^®$&fc^> 



-r* 



IWK CJ«E 0E I]W7P^¥.ij 



^4 < S 



BETSEY'S got another baby ! 
Charming, precious little type ! 
Grandma says — and she knows surely- 

That you never saw its like. 
Isn't it a beaming beauty, 

Lying there so sweet and snug? 
Mrs. Jones, pray stop your scandal, 
Darling's nose is not a pug ! 

Some one says 'tis Pa all over, 

Whereat Pa turns rather red, 
And, to scan his features, quickly 

To the looking-glass has fled ; 
But recovers his composure, 

When he hears the nurse's story, 
Who admits that of all babies 

This indeed's the crowning glory ! 

Aunt Lucretia says she guesses — 

Says, indeed, she knows it, pos, 
That 't will prove to be a greater 

Man than e'er its father was ; 
Proving thus the modern thesis 

Held by reverend doctors sage, 
That in babies, as in wisdom, 

This is a " progressive " age. 

Uncle Henry looks and wonders 

At so great a prodigy ; 
Close and closer still he presses 

Thinking something brave to see. 
Up they hold the babe before him, 

While they gather in a ring, 
But, alas ! the staggered uncle 

Vainly tries his praise to sing. 

As he stares, the lovely infant, 

Nestling by its mother's side, 
Opes its little mouth, and singing, 

Gurgles forth a milky tide. 
Uncle tries to hide his blushes, 

Looks about to find his hat, 
Stumbles blindly o'er the cradle, 

And upsets the startled cat. 



Why, Oh why such awkward blunders ? 

Better far have stayed away, 
Nor have thrust yourself where woman 

Holds an undisputed sway ; 
Do you think that now they'll name it, 

As they mean to, after you ? 
Wretched mortal ! let me answer, 

You're deluded if you do ! 

Round about the noisy women 

Pass the helpless stranger now, 
Raptured with each nascent feature, 

Chin and mouth, and eye and brow ; 
And for this young bud of promise 

All neglect the rose in bloom, 
Eldest born, who, quite forgotten, 

Pouts within her lonely room. 

Sound the stage-horn ! ring the cow-bell ! 

That the waiting world may know ; 
Publish it through all our borders, 

Even unto Mexico. 
Seize your pen, Oh dreaming poet ! 

And in numbers smooth as may be, 
Spread afar the joyful tidings, 

Betsey's got another baby ! 

— K NICKERBOCKER. 



SBBBBBBSSt+a 



"Most gladly, therefore, will I rather glory in my infirmity. 1 

WEARILY from stair to stair, 
Slowly climb the little feet, 
Dress awry and tangled hair, 
Pouting lips as berries sweet. 

" I'se so tired, don't 'ou see ? 

Dess I never '11 det up-stairs. 
Dranpa, won't 'ou tarry me, 

So as I tan say my prayers ?" 



166 



LITTLENESS. 



Light the burden that I bore, 
Nestling softly on my breast ; 

Arms that hugged me o'er and o'er, 
Tiny form at perfect rest. 



And the midget softly said, 
" Ain't you glad I'se small ? 

When I have to go to bed, 
'Ou tan always tarry me." 



'Ou 



sec, 



Glad I clasped the maiden close, 
Warm the beating of my heart; 

Love which every parent knows, 
Made the happy tear-drops start. 

Ah ! I thought my weary feet, 
Toiling painfully life's stair, 

Often find it passing sweet 
When I meet my Father there. 



Weak and sinful, poor and blind, 
Glad I seek his sheltering arm; 

Joyful welcome there I find, 
Calm security from harm. 

Whispering prattle faint and low, 

In his ever open ear, 
Words whose meaning I scarce know, 

Yet he loves to pause and hear. 

Does there ever o'er Him fall 
That glad thrill of holy glee — 

Gladness that I am so small 
He can safely carry me ? 

M. E. WINS LOW, 



fe£^= 



o/i\o 



w 




(■LEEP breathes at last from out thee, 
My little patient boy ; 
And balmy rest about thee 
Smooths off the day's annoy. 

I sit me down, and think 
Of all thy winning ways ; 
Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, 
That I had less to praise. 

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness ; 

Thy thanks to all that aid ; 
Thy heart, in pain and weakness, 
Of fancied faults afraid ; 

The little trembling hand 
That wipes thy quiet tears, — - 
These, these are things that may demand 
Dread memories for years. 

Sorrows I've had, severe ones, 

I will not think of now ; 
And calmly, midst my dear ones, 
Have wasted with dry brow ; 
But when thy fingers press 
And pat my stooping head, 
I cannot bear the gentleness, — 
The tears are in their bed. 



Ah, first-born of thy mother, 

When life and hope were new ; 
Kind playmate of thy brother, 
Thy sister, father too ; 

My light where'er I go ; 
My bird, when prison-bound ; 
My hand-in-hand companion — No, 

My prayers shall hold thee round. 

To say, " He has departed" — 

" His voice" — "his face" — is gone, 
To feel impatient-hearted, 
Yet feel we must bear on, — 

Ah, I could not endure 
To whisper of such woe, 
Unless I felt this sleep insure 
That it will not be so. 

Yes, still he's fixed, and sleeping! 

This silence too the while, — 
Its very hush and creeping 
Seem whispering us a smile ; 
Something divine and dim 
Seems going by one's ear, 
Like parting wings of cherubim, 

Who say, " We've finished here." 

LEIGH HUNT. 



167 




||||RANDMA told me all about it, 
fJH|£ Told me so I couldn't doubt it. 
How she danced — my grandma danced- 

Long ago. 
How she held her pretty head, 
How her dainty skirt she spread, 
How she turned her little toes — 
Smiling little human rose ! — ■ 

Long ago. 

Grandma's hair was bright and sunny ; 
Dimpled cheeks, too — ah, how funny ! 
Really quite a pretty girl, 
Long ago. 
Bless her ! why she wears a cap, 
Grandma does, and takes a nap 
Every single day ; and yet 
Grandma danced the minuet 
Long ago. 

Now she sits there, rocking, rocking, 
Always knitting grandpa's stocking — ■ 
(Every girl was taught to knit 
Long ago), 
Yet her figure is so neat. 
And her way so staid and sweet, 
I can almost see her now 
Bending to her partner's bow, 
Long ago. 

Grandma says our modern jumping, 
Hopping, rushing, whirling, bumping, 
Would have shocked the gentle folk 

Long ago. 
No — they moved with stately grace, 
Everything in proper place, 
Gliding slowly forward, then 
Slowly courtesying back again, 

Long ago. 

Modern ways are quite alarming, 
Grandma says ; but boys were charming- 
Girls and boys I mean, of course — 
Long ago. 
Bravely modest, grandly shy — 
What if all of us should try 



Just to feel like those who met 
In the graceful minuet 
Long ago ? 

With the minuet in fashion, 
Who could fly into a passion ? 
All would wear the calm they wore 

Long ago. 
In time to come, if I perchance 
Should tell my grandchild of our dance, 
I should really like to say, 
" We did it, dear, in some such way 

Long ago. 

MRS. MARY M . DODGE. 



WHO WOULD BE A BOY AGAIN? 

IN company one evening, when the 
song, " Would I were a boy again," 
was called for, a gray-headed " old boy" 
discoursed thus : 

A boy again ! Who would be a boy 
again, if he could? To have measles, 
itch, and mumps; to get licked by bigger 
boys and scolded by older brothers; to 
stub toes ; to slip up on the ice ; to do 
chores; to get your ears boxed; to get 
whaled by a thick-headed schoolmaster ; 
to be made to stand up as the dunce for 
the amusement of the whole school, and 
be told how miserable, weak, and stupid 
you Avere when you were born, and to 
have the master ask you what would have 
become of you at that interesting time in 
life if your parents had not been so patient 
with and so kind to you; to eat at the 
second table when company comes ; to set 
out cabbage plants and thin corn because 
you are little, and consequently it wouldn't 
make your back ache so much ; to be 
made to go to school when you don't want 



168 



WHO WOULD BE A BOY AGAIN. 



to; to lose your marbles; to have your 
sled broken ; to get hit in the eyes with 
frozen apples and soggy snow balls; to 
cut your finger; to lose your knife; to 
have a hole in your only pair of pants 
when your pretty cousin from the city 
comes to see you ; to be called a coward 
at school if you don't fight ; to be whaled 
at home if you do fight ; to be struck after 
a little girl and dare not tell her ; to have 
a boy too big for you to lick to tell you 
that your sweetheart squints ; to have 
your sweetheart cut you dead and affiliate 
with that boy John Smith, whom you 
hate particularly, because he set your 
nose out of joint the week before ; to be 
made to go to bed when you know you 
ain't a bit sleepy ; to have no fire-crackers 
on the Fourth of July, no skates on Christ- 



mas; to want a piece of bread and butter 
with honey and get your ears pulled ; to 
be kept from the circus when it comes to 
town, and when all other boys go ; to get 
pounded for stealing roasting ears ; to get 
run by bull-dogs for trying to nip water- 
melons; to have the canker rash, cate- 
chism, stone bruises ; to be called up to 
kiss old women that visit your mother ; to 
be scolded because you like Maggie Love 
better than your own sister; to be told 
of a scorching time little boys will have 
Avho tell lies, and are not like George 
Washington; to catch your big brother 
kissing the pretty school ma'am on the 
sly, and wish you were big so you could 
kiss her too, and — and — why who'd be a 
boy again f 








MY BOY. 



LITTLE face, little, loved, tender face, 



Set, like a saint's, in curls for aureole — 
Little, loved face, in which the clear child soul 
Is mirror'd with a changeful, perfect grace ; 
Where sudden ripples of light laughter chase 

The dimples round the dainty mouth ; where roll 

Cloud shadows of great questionings, and dole 
For human ills half realized, where race, 
In restless sequence, gloom, gleam, shade and shine— 

A thousand feelings, sorrow, love and joy, 
A thousand thoughts, of folly half divine, 

And bold imaginings, and fancies coy, 

And reasonings dream-like ! — 

O my boy, my boy, 
How I do love that little face of thine ! 





169 



p 



%Ue £ltfle Clctked lu the Strawer. 

In manj' a mother's heart these pathetic words, all the more tender and touching from the 
quaint Scotch brogue, will awaken an echo, that comes again and again, and never entirely 
dies away, assuring the sorrowing heart that the echo itself comes from the far-away land. 

UT in the drawer — my heart can bear nae niair ; -fe- 

llow up the paper wi' my dawty's hair; 

I ken, I ken, it but renews my waes — [ 

I ken I sudna' touch my lassie's claes ; 
But when the past comes crowdin' through my brain 
I canna let her bits o' things alane. 
Sin' e'er she dee'd I wauken wi' a start, 
An' O, there's something saer comes ower my heart ; 
Then thochts like lightnin' minds me o' her death, 
An' for a while I scarce can draw my breath. 
I dream'd a dream before she took her bed, 
An' O ! wae's me, it's been ower truly read ; 
An' whan the cock began to craw at night, 
I bodit aye that something wasna' richt ; 
An' whan the window shook frae head to fit, 
I thocht my very heart lap aff the bit. 
Nae mair 'hint the door I'll see her keek, 
Nae mair to mine she'll lay her dimpled cheek I 
An' never mair me roun' the neck she'll tak', 
Nor dook her bonnie headie in my lap ! 
Weel she was likit by ilk neebor wean, 
An' unco blythe they keepit my hearth-stane : 
The dorty anes she'd pleasure sae auldfarran — 
"Wad let them see the " man that broke the barn " 
Wad mak' doo's dookits wi' her fingers sma', 
An' raise a lauch that wad delight them a' ; 
Syne let them see, upon the auld kist head, 
Hoo " Robie Salmon selt his gingerbread ; " 
Wad cock her head and gie sick pawkie looks — 
Her tongueie gaed as it wad clippit cloots, 
But when my wee drap tea I set agaun, 
My wee bit lassie sune was at my han' ; 
A drappie i' the saucer aye she gat, 
An' syne contentit at my fit she sat. 
But noo when I set down I scarce break bread, 
I scarce can lift the saucer to my head. 
Ah ! never mair at nippit cakes I'll growl, 
Nor catch her fingers i' the sugar bowl ! 
I ken, I ken she's in a bright warl' noo, 
Among the flowers that death can never poo 
I ken, O ! weel I ken, we're born to part — 
But if I didna greet I'd break my heart !" 

170 





[[[IlllllllUf 




•H BOY1O01. [ 



A E E X T S 

should remem- 
ber that the 
children of to- 
day, and espe- 
cially those 
born in cities, 
are peculiarly 
exposed to temptation. The opportu- 
nities which came to many of us from the 
old home life in the country, with its crisp 
atmosphere of Puritan goverment, its hab- 
its of honesty and honorable industry, its 
conservative customs, and its simple rev- 
erent faith in God, all centered around one 
spot, all hallowing one locality, will not 
come to our children, because the causes 
and incentives which operated to establish 
them in us, do not operate to establish 
them in the rising generation. A boyhood 
passed in the city is a far different thing 
from one passed in the country. The 
sights and sounds and surroundings of 
metropolitan life force the growth of the 
young, and at a time, too, when the physical 
and sensuous preponderate in the nature. 
These beget a looseness of thought and 
freedom of conduct before the judgement 
is sufficiently matured by experience to 
check them. These educate one into neces- 
sities faster than individual effort can earn 
the means of supplying them ; and foster 
that worst of all habits of the young man 
— eating, and wearing, and spending what 
he has not earned. We do not say, pa- 
rents, that these evil tendencies cannot be 
lessened or wholly counterbalanced, but 
we do say that they call for the utmost 
effort on your part, and make anxiety rea- 
sonable. They may achieve what the 
world calls success, although even this will 
be hazarded. But they will never lead 



that life of piety and holiness which can 
alone commend them in their character 
and conduct to the favor of God. They 
will live and labor as those whose lives 
end at the grave. The line of pure sel- 
fishness will circumscribe their lives, and 
shame and confusion of face will cover 
them when they appear to render their 
account before God. 

REV. W . H . H.MURRAY. 




BE GENTLE. 




E ever gentle with the children 
God has given you; watch 
over them constantly; reprove 
them earnestly, but not in anger. In the 
forcible language of Scripture, " Be not 
bitter against them." I once heard a kind 
father say : " Yes, they are good boys ; I 
talk to them very much, but do not like 
to beat my children — the world will beat 
them." It was a beautiful thought, though 
not elegantly expressed. Yes : there is 
not one child in the circle round the table, 
healthful and happy as they look now, on 
whose head, if long enough spared, the 
storm will not beat. Adversity may with- 
er them, sickness may fade, a cold world 
may frown on them, but amidst all let 
memory carry them back to home where 
the law of kindness reigned, where the 
mother's reproving eye was moistened with 
a tear, and the father frowned " more in 
sorrow than in anger." 



ELIHU BURRITT. 



171 



V= 



v 



The JVIother to her Ghild. 



r 



^ 




HEY tell me thou art come from a far world, 
Babe of my bosom ! that these little arms, 
Whose restlessness is like the spread of wings, 
Move with the memory of flights scarce o'er — 
That through these fringed lids we see the soul 
Steep'd in the blue of its remember'd home ; 
And while thou sleep'stcome messengers, they say, 
Whispering to thee — and 'tis then I see 

Upon thy baby lips that smile of heaven. 
And what is thy far errand, my fair child ? 

Why away, wandering from a home of bliss, 

To find thy way through darkness home again ? 

Wert thou an untried dweller in the sky ? 

Is there, betwixt the cherub that thou Avert, 

The cherub and the angel thou mayst be, 

A life's probation in this sadder world ? 

Art thou with memory of two things only, 

Music and light, left upon earth astray 

And, by the watchers at the gate of heaven, 

Look'd for with fear and trembling? 

God ! who gavest 

Into my guiding hand this wanderer, 

To lead her through a world whose darkling paths 

I tread with steps so faltering — leave not me 

To bring her to the gates of heaven, alone ! 

I feel my feebleness. Let these stay on — 

The angels who now visit her in dreams ! 

Bid them be near her pillow till in death 

The closed eyes look upon Thy face once mor^ ! 

And let the light and music, which the world 

Borrows of heaven, and which her infant sense 

Hails Avith sweet recognition, be to her 

A A r oice to call her upAvard, and a lamp 

To lead her steps unto Thee ! 



WILLIS. 





XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX,-. < -. > ' 



;xxxxx 



He that spareth his rod hateth his son ; but he that loveth him chasteneth him betimes. 

BIBLE. 

172 





HE child is father of the man. we meet this array of words ! Yet how 
Men are but children of a lar- insensible we are to the profound philos- 
ger growth. How often do ophy they enwrap. Sublime and aston- 

173 



WHAT ARE CHILDREN. 



ishing truths ! Uttered every day in our 
hearing, set before our eyes at every step 
of our journey through life, written over 
all the monuments of earth, upon the 
pages and banners of all History, upon 
the temples and the pyramids, the palaces 
and the sepulchres of departed Nations, 
upon all the doings of the Past and Pres- 
ent, as with unextinguishable fire, and 
sounding forever and ever in the unap- 
proachable solitudes of the Future! Yet 
heard with indifference, read without emo- 
tion, and repeated from mouth to mouth, 
day after day and year after year, without 
a suspicion of their deep meaning, of their 
transcendent importance, of their imper- 
ishable beauty. And why ? The language 
is too familiar, the apparent signification 
too simple and natural for the excited un- 
derstandings of the multitude. There is 
no curtain to be lifted, no veil to be rent 
as with the hands of giants, no zone to be 
loosened, no mystery to be expounded afar 
off, as in the language of another world, 
nothing to be guessed at, or deciphered, 
nothing but what anybody might under- 
stand if he would, and, therefore, nothing 
to be remembered or cared for. 

But, in simple truth, a more sublime 
interrogation could not be propounded 
than that which may appear to be answered 
by the language referred to, What are 
children ? Step to the window with me. 
The street is full of them. Yonder a school 
is let loose; and here, just within reach of 
our observation, are two or three noisy 
little fellows ; and there, another party 
mustering for play. Some are whispering 
together, and plotting so loudly and so 
earnestly, as to attract everybody's atten- 
tion ; while others are holding themselves 
aloof, with their satchels gaping so as to 
betray a part of their plans for to-morrow 
afternoon, or laying their heads together in 
pairs, for a trip to the islands. Look at 



them, weigh the question I have put to 
you, and then answer it, as it deserves to 
to be answered. What are children? To 
which you reply at once, without any sort 
of hesitation perhaps, — " Just as the twig 
is bent the tree's inclined"; or, " Men are 
but children of a larger growth " ; or, per- 
ad venture, "The child is father of the 
man." And then, perhaps, you leave me, 
perfectly satisfied with yourself and with 
your answer, having "plucked out the 
heart of the mystery," and uttered, with- 
out knowing it, a string of glorious truths, 
— pearls of great price. 

But instead of answering you as another 
might, instead of saying, Very true, what 
if I were to call you back to the window 
with words like these : Do you know what 
you have said ? do you know the meaning 
of the language you have employed ? or, 
in other words, do you know your own 
meaning f What would you think of me ? 
That I was playing the philosopher, per- 
haps, that I wanted to puzzle you with a 
childish question, that I thought I was 
thinking, or at best that I was a little out 
of my senses. Yet, if you were a man of 
understanding, I should have paid you a 
high compliment ; a searcher after truth, 
I should have done you a great favor ; a 
statesman, a law-giver, a philanthropist, a 
patriot, or a father, I should have laid you 
under everlasting obligations, I should 
have opened a boundless treasury under- 
neath your feet, I should have translated 
you instantly to a new world, carried you 
up into a high mountain, as it were, and 
set before you all the kingdoms of the 
earth, with all their revolutions and 
changes, all future history 7 , the march of 
armies, the growth of conquerors, the wax- 
ing and the waning of empire, the changes 
of opinion, the apparition of thrones dash- 
ing against thrones, the overthrow of sys- 
tems, and the revolution of ages. 



174 



WHAT ARE CHILDREN. 



Among the children who are now play- 
ing together, — like birds among the blos- 
soms of earth, haunting all the green 
shadowy places thereof, and rejoicing in 
the bright air ; happy and beautiful crea- 
tures, and as changeable as happy, with 
eyes brimful of joy, and with hearts play- 
ing upon their little faces like sunshine 
upon clear waters ; among those who are 
now idling together on that slope, or hunt- 
ing butterflies togethep-on the edge of that 
wood, a wilderness of roses, — you would 
see not only the gifted, and the powerful, 
the wise and the eloquent, the ambitious 
and the renowned, the long-lived and the 
long-to-be lamented of another age, but 
the wicked and the treacherous, the liar 
and the thief, the abandoned profligate 
and the faithless husband, the gambler 
and the drunkard, the robber, the burglar, 
the ravisher, the murderer, and the be- 
trayer of his country. The child is father 
of the man. 

Among them and'that other little troop 
just appearing, children with yet happier 
faces and pleasanter eyes, the blossoms of 
the future — the mothers of nations — you 
would see the founders of states and the 
destroyers of their country, the steadfast 
and the weak, the judge and the criminal, 
the murderer and the executioner, the 
exalted and the lowly, the unfaithful wife 
and the broken-hearted husband, the 
proud betrayer and his pale victim, the 
living and breathing portents and prodi- 
gies, the embodied virtues and vices, of 
another age and of another world, and all 
playing together ! Men are but children 
of a larger growth. 

Pursuing the search you would go forth 
among the little creatures, as among the 
types of another and a loftier language, 
the mystery whereof has just been re- 
vealed to you, — a language to become 
universal hereafter, types in which the 



autobiography of the Future was written 
ages ago. Among the innocent and help- 
less creatures that are called children, you 
would see warriors, with their garments 
rolled in blood, the spectres of kings and 
princes, poets with golden harps and illu- 
minated eyes, historians and painters, 
architects and sculptors, mechanics and 
merchants, preachers and lawyers; here 
a grave-digger flying his kite with his 
future customers, there a physician playing 
at marbles with his; here the predestined 
to an early and violent death for cowardice, 
fighting the battles of a whole neighbor- 
hood ; there a Cromwell or a Csesar, a Na- 
poleon or a Washington, hiding them- 
selves for fear, enduring reproach or insult 
with patience; a Benjamin Franklin hig- 
gling for nuts or gingerbread, or the "Old 
Parr " of another generation sitting apart 
in the sunshine, and shivering at every 
breath of wind that reaches him. Yet 
we are told that "just as the twig is bent 
the tree's inclined." 

Hereafter is made up of the shreds and 
patches of Heretofore. If " Men are but 
children of a larger growth," then what 
are children f Men of a smaller growth. 
And this happens to be the truth, not 
only in the world of imagination, but in 
the world of realities ; not only among 
poets, but among lawyers. At law, chil- 
dren are men, — little children murderers. 
A boy of nine, and others of ten and eleven, 
have been put to death in England, two 
for murder, and a third for " cunningly 
and maliciously firing" two barns. Of 
the little murderers, one killed his 
playmate and the other his bedfellow. 
And therefore, said the judges, they knew 
they had done wrong, — they could distin- 
guish between good and evil; and there- 
fore they ordered both to be strangled. 
And they were strangled accordiogly. 
As if a child who is old enough to know 



175 



WHAT ARE CHILDREN. 



that he has done wrong, is therefore old 
enough to know that he deserves death ! 
So with regard to children of the other 
sex. At law babies are women, women 
babies. The same law which classes our 
mothers and our wives, our sisters and 
our daughters, with infants, lunatics, 
idiots and " persons beyond sea," allows a 
child to be betrothed at seven, to be en- 
dowed of her husband's future estate at 
nine, and to agree or disagree to a previ- 
ous marriage at twelve. And what is 
law in England is law here. 

Such are children. Corrupted they are 
fountains of bitterness for ages. Would 
you plant for the skies? Plant in the 
live soil of the warm and generous and 
youthful ; pour all your treasures into the 
hearts of children. Would you look into 
the future as with the spirit of prophecy, 
and read as with a telescope the history 
and character of our country, and of other 
countries? You have but to watch the 
eyes of children at play. 

What children are, neighborhoods are, 
communities are, states, empires, worlds ! 
They are the elements of Hereafter made 
visible. 

Even fathers and mothers look upon 
children with a strange misapprehension 
of their dignity. Even with the poets 
they are only the flowers and blossoms, 
the dew-drops or the playthings of earth. 
Yet " of such is the kingdom of heaven." 
The Kingdom of Heaven ! with all its 
principalities and powers, its hierarchies, 
dominations, thrones ! The Saviour un- 
derstood them better ; to Him their true 
dignity was revealed. Flowers! They 
are the flowers of the invisible world, — 
indestructible, self-perpetuating flowers, 
with each a multitude of angels and evil 
spirits underneath its leaves, toiling and 
wrestling for dominion over it ! Blossoms ! 
They are the blossoms of another world, 



whose fruitage is angels and archangels. 
Or dew-drops ? They are dew-drops that 
have their source, not in the chambers of 
the earth, nor among the vapors of the 
sky, which the next breath of wind, or the 
next flash of sunshine may dry up forever, 
but among the everlasting fountains and 
inexhaustible reservoirs of mercy and 
love. Playthings ! God ! — if the little 
creatures would but appear to us in their 
true shape for a moment ! We should 
fall upon our faces before them, or grow 
pale with consternation, or fling them oif 
with horror and loathing. What would 
be our feelings to see a fair child start up 
before us a maniac or a murderer, armed 
to the teeth ? to find a nest of serpents 
on our pillow ? a destroyer or a traitor, a 
Harry the Eighth, or a Benedict Arnold 
asleep in our bosom ? A Catharine or a 
Peter, a Bacon, a Galileo, or a Benthan, 
a Napoleon or a Voltaire, clambering up 
our knees after sugar-plums? Cuvier 
laboring to distinguish a horse-fly from 
a blue-bottle, or dissecting a spider with a 
rusty nail ? La Place trying to multiply 
his own apples, or to subtract his play- 
fellows' gingerbread? What should we 
say to find ourselves romping with 
Messalina, Swedenborg, Madam de Stael ? 
or playing bo-peep with Murat, Robes- 
pierre, and Charlotte Corday ? or puss- 
puss in the corner with George Washing- 
ton, Jonathan Wild, Shakespeare, Sap- 
pho, Jeremy Taylor, Mrs. Clark, Alfieri, 
and Harriet Wilson ? Yet stranger things 
have happened. These were all children 
but the other day, and clambered about 
the knees, and rummaged in the pockets, 
and nestled in the laps of the people no 
better than we are. But if they had ap- 
peared in their true shape for a single 
moment, while playing together ! What 
a scampering there would have been among 
the grown folks ! How their fingers would 



176 



WHAT ARE CHILDREN. 



have tingled ! Now to me there is no 
study half so delightful as that of these 
little creatures, with hearts fresh from the 
gardens of the sky, in their first and 
fairest and most unintentional disclosures, 
while they are indeed a mystery, a fra- 
grant, luminous, and beautiful mystery. 
And I have an idea that if we only had a 
name for the study, it might be found as 
attractive and as popular, and perhaps, — 
though I would not go too far — perhaps 
about as advantageous in the long run 
to the future fathers and mothers of 
mankind, as the study of shrubs and 
flowers, or that of birds and fishes. And 
why not ? They are the cryptogamia of 
another world, — the infusoria of the skies. 

Then why not pursue the study for your- 
selves? The subjects are always before 
you. No books are needed, no costly 
drawings, no lectures, neither transparen- 
cies nor illustrations. Your specimens are 
all about you. They come and go at your 
bidding. They are not to be hunted for, 
along the edge of a precipice, on the bor- 
ders of the wilderness, in the desert, nor 
by the sea-shore. They abound not in the 
uninhabited or unvisited place, but in your 
very dwelling-houses, about the steps of 
your doors, in every street of every village, 
in every green field, and every crowded 
thoroughfare. They flourish bravely in 
snow storms, in the dust of the trampled 
highway, where the drums are beating and 
colors flying — in the roar of cities. They 
love the sounding sea-breeze and the open 
air, and may always be found about the 
wharves, and rejoicing before the windows 
of toy-shops. They love the blaze of fire- 
works and the smell of gunpowder ; and 
where that is, they are to a dead certainty. 

You have but to go abroad for half an 
hour in pleasant weather, or to throw open 
your doors or windows on a Saturday after- 
noon, if you live anywhere in the neigh- 



borhood of a school-house, or a vacant lot, 
with here and there a patch of green, or a 
dry place in it, and steal behind the cur- 
tains, draw the blinds, and let the fresh 
wind blow through and through the cham- 
bers of your heart for a few minutes, win- 
nowing the dust and scattering the cob- 
webs that have gathered there while you 
were asleep, and lo ! you will find it ring- 
ing with the voices of children at play, and 
all alive with the glimmering phantasma- 
goria of leap-frog, prison-base, knock- up- 
and-catch. 

JOHN NEAL. 



A THOUGHT OVER A CKAD1E. 



|s|!? SADDEN when thou smilest to my smile, 
@g& Child of my love ! I tremble to believe 
"^ That o'er the mirror of that eye of blue 
The shadow of my heart will always pass ; — 
A heart that, from its struggle with the world, 
Comes nightly to thy guarded cradle home, 
And, careless of the staining dust it brings, 
Asks for its idol ! Strange, that flowers of earth 
Are visited by every air that stirs, 
And drink in sweetness only, while the child 
That shuts within its breast a bloom for heaven 
May take a blemish from the breath of love, 
And bear the blight forever. 

I have wept 
With gladness at the gift of this fair child! 
My life is bound up in her. But, oh God ! 
Thou know'st how heavily my heart at times 
Bears its sweet burden ; and if thou hast given 
To nurture such as mine this spotless flower, 
To bring it unpolluted unto Thee, 
Take Thou its love, I pray Thee ! Give it light- 
Though, following the sun, it turn from me ! — 
But, by the chord thus wrung, and by the light 
Shining about her, draw me to my child ! 
And link us close, oh God, when near toheaven! 

N. P. WILLIS. 



177 



12 




l&S^j) 






fYTEE WIDOWS LULLABY.4£fe- 



HE droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

The sun comes up from the lea, 

As he who will never come more 

Came up that first day to her door, 

When the ship furled her sails by the shore, 

And the spring leaves were green on the tree. 

But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie 1" 

The sun goes down in the sea, 

As he who will never go more, 

Went down that last day from her door, 

When the ship set her sails from the shore, 

And the dead leaves were sere on the tree. 

But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

The year comes glad o'er the lea, 

As he who will never come more, 

Never, ah never ! 

Came up that first day to her door, 

When the ship furled her sails by the shore, 

And the spring leaves were green on the tree. 

Never, ah never ! 

He M r ho will come again, never ! 

But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

The year goes sad to the sea, 
As he who will never go more 
For ever went down from her door, 
Ever, for ever ! 

When the ship set her sails by the shore, 
And the dead leaves were sere on the tree. 
Ever, for ever ! 

For ever went down from her door. 

178 





THE WIDOW'S LULLABY. 

But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie! 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

A gun, and a flash, and a gun, 
The ship lies again where she lay ! 
High and low, low and high in the sun, 
There's a boat, a boat on the bay ! 
High and low, low and high, in the sun, 
All as she saw it that day, 
When he came who shall never come more, 
And the ship furled her sails by the shore. 

But she droops like a dew-dropping lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! 

AVhisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie!" 

All as she saw it that day, 

With a gun, and a flash, and a gun, 

The ship lies again where she lay, 

And they run, and they ride, and they run, 

Merry, merry, merry, down the merry highway; 

To the boat high and low in the sun. 

Nearer and nearer she hears the rolling drum, 

Clearer and clearer she hears the cry, "They come.'' 

Far and near runs the cheer to her ear once so dear, 

Merry, merry, merry, up the merry highway, 

As it ran when he came that day 

And said, " Wilt thou be my dearie ? 

Oh, wilt thou be my dearie ? 

My boat is dry in the bay, 

And I'll love till thou be weary !" 

And she could not say him nay, 

For his bonny eyes o' blue, 

And never was true-love so true, 

To never so kind a dearie, 

As he who will never love more, 

When the ship furls her sails by the shore. 

Then she shakes like a wind-stricken lily, 

" Whisht thee, boy, whisht thee, boy Willie ! 

Whisht, whisht o' thy wailing, whisht thee, boy Willie !" 

SYDNEY DO BELL. 

179 




/f\ OLDENHAIR climbed up on grandpapa's 

\\ tt knee ; 

Dear little Goldenhair ! tired was she, 
All the day busy as busy could be. 

Up in the morning as soon as 't was light, 
Out with the birds and butterflies bright. 
Skipping about till the coming of night. 

Grandpapa toyed with the curls on her head. 
" What has my baby been doing," he said, 
" Since she arose, with the sun from her bed?" 

" Pitty much," answered the sweet little one ; 
' I cannot tell so much things I have done, — 
Played with my dolly and feeded my Bun. 

" And I have jumped with my little jump-rope, 
And I made out of some water and soap, 
Bufitle worlds ! mama's castles of Hope. 

" And I have readed in my picture-book, 

And little Bella and I went to look 

For some smooth stones by the side of the brook. 

u ' Then I corned home and eated my tea, 
And I climbed up to my grandpapa's knee, 
I jes as tired as tired can be." 

Lower and lower the little head pressed, 
Until it drooped upon grandpapa's breast ; 
Dear little Goldenhair ! sweet be thy rest ! 

We are but children ; the things that we do 
Are as sports of a babe to the infinite view 
That sees all our weakness, and pities it too. 

God grant that when night overshadows our way 
And we shall be called to account for our day, 
He shall find us as guileless as Goldenhair's play! 

And 0, when aweary may we be so blest 

As to sink like the innocent child to our rest, 

And feel ourselves clasped to the Infinite breast ! 



The real orphan is not he who has lost 
his father, but he whose father gave him 
no education. 



ORIENTAL E. 



TliHERE'S no dew left on the daisies and 
clover, 
There's no rain left in heaven. 
I've said my "seven times" over and over 
Seven times one are seven. 



F. BURGE SMITH. 



I am old, — so old I can write a letter ; 

My birthday lessons are done. 
The lambs play always, — they know no better; 

They are only one times one. 

Oh Moon ! in the night I have seen you sailing 

And shining so round and low. 
You were bright — ah bright — but your light is 
failing ; 

You are nothing now but a bow. 

You Moon ! have you done something wrong 
in heaven, 

That God has hidden your face? 
I hope, if you have, you will soon be forgiven, 

And shine again in your place. 

Oh velvet Bee ! you're a dusty fellow, — 
You've powdered your legs with gold. 

Oh brave marsh Mary-buds, rich and yellow, 
Give me your money to hold ! 

Oh Columbine ! open your folded wrapper, 
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell ! 

Oh Cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper 
That hangs in your clear green bell ! 

And show me your nest, with the young ones 
in it, — 

I will not steal them away ; 
I am old ! you may trust me, linnet, linnet ! 

I am seven times one to-day. 

JEAN INGELO W. 






180 



"BE KIND, BOYS." 



YOU are made to be kind, boys, 
generous, magnanimous. If 
there is a boy in school who has 
a club-foot, don't let him know you ever 
saw it. If there is a poor boy with ragged 
clothes, don't talk about rags in his hear- 
ing. If there is a lame boy, assign him 
some part of the game which does not 
require running. If there is a hungry 
one, give him part of your dinner. If 
there is a dull one, help him to get his 
lesson. If there is a bright one, be not 
envious of him; for if one boy is proud 
of his talents, and another is envious of 
them, there are two great wrongs, and no 
more talent than before. If a larger or 
stronger boy has injured you, and is sorry 
for it, forgive him. All the school will 
show by their countenances how much 
better it is than to have a great fist. 



HORACE MANN. 



A DIHNBR AHD A KISS. 



i 



HAVE brought your dinner, father," 
The blacksmith's daughter said, 
As she took from her arm the kettle, 
And lifted its shining lid. 



" There is not any pie or pudding ; 

So I will give you this ;" 
And upon his toil-worn forehead 

She left the childish kiss. 
The blacksmith took off his apron, 

And dined in happy mood, 
Wondering much at the savor 

Hid in his humble food, 

While all about him were visions 

Full of prophetic bliss ; 
But he never thought of the magic 

In his little daughter's kiss. 
While she, with her kettle swinging, 

Merrily trudged away, 
Stopping at sight of a squirrel, 

Catching some wild bird's lay, 



O, I thought, how many a shadow 
Of life and fate we would miss, 

If always our frugal dinners 
Were seasoned with a kiss ! 



Sad SemcmBrances of MMdhood. 

THE dreams of childhood — its airy 
fables ; its graceful, beautiful 
humane, impossible adornments 
of the world beyond ; so good to be be- 
lieved in once, so good to be remembered 
when outgrown, for then the least among 
them rises to the stature of a great Charity 
in the heart, suffering little children to 
come into the midst of it, and to keep 
with their pure hands a garden in the 
stony ways of this world, wherein it was 
better for all the children of Adam that 
they should oftener sun themselves, simple 
and trustful, and not worldly-wise — what 
had she to do with these ? Remembrances 
of how she had journeyed to the little that 
she knew, by the enchanted roads of what 
she and millions of innocent creatures had 
hoped and imagined ; and how first com- 
ing upon Reason through the tender light 
of Fancy, she had seen it a beneficent 
god, deferring to gods as great as itself; 
not a grim Idol, cruel and cold, with its 
victims bound hand and foot, and its big 
dumb shape set up with a sightless stare, 
never to be moved by anything but so 
many calculated tons of leverage — what 
had she to do with these '? Her remem- 
brances of home and childhood were re- 
membrances of the drying up of every 
spring and fountain in her young heart as 
it gushed out. The golden waters were 
not there. They were flowing for the 
fertilization of the land where grapes are 
gathered from thorns, and figs from 
thistles. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



181 



EARLY DAYS. 



EARLY DAYS. 

I^H ! enviable early clays, 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's 
maze, 

To care to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies or the crimes 

Of others or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court, 

When manhood is your wish ! 

ROBERT BURNS. 



A heritage, it seems to me, 

A king might wish to hold in fee. 

Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, 
Are equal in the earth at last, 

Both, children of the same dear God, 
Prove title to your heirship vast 
By records of a well-nll'd past: 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
Well worth a life to hold in fee. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



Children of the Rich and Poor Contrasted, 



The jlntyei'iJ. 



THE rich man's son inherits lands, 
And piles of brick, and stone and gold, 
And he inherits soft white hands, 
And tender flesh that fears the cold, 
Nor dares to wear a garment old : 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

The rich man's son inherits cares, — 
The bank may break, the factory burn, 

A breath may burst his bubble shares ; 
And soft white hands could hardly earn 
A living that would serve his turn : 
A heritage, it seems to me, 
One scarce would wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, 

A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; 
King of two hands he does his part 
In every useful toil and art: 
A heritage,, it seems to me, 
A king might wish to hold in fee. 

What doth the poor man's son inherit ? 
A patience learned of being poor, 

Courage, if sorrow comes, to bear it, 
A fellow feeling that is sure 
To make the outcast bless his door: 



^HE nursery anticipates the 
school and the church ; it sows 




the first seed and in that little 
ijjT^j-d home the atmosphere of the 
world first comes into close contact with 
the child's moral and immortal nature. 
Looked at in its true light, what is the 
nursery but just the next age in its bud 
and blossom? An enlightened regard, 
therefore, for the highest good of our chil- 
dren should make us deeply concerned for 
that of our domestics ; for in contributing 
to their knowledge of God, we are helping 
to purify the moral atmosphere iu which 
our whole household shall live and move, 
and laying down deeper, by every such 
effort, the foundations of our domestic 
happiness, and through this, in our share 
promoting the true prosperity and sta- 
bility of the commonwealth. It has been 
justly said, " Families are the nurseries 
both for the state and for the church ; the 
springs which, from their retirements, 
send forth the tributary streams, which 
by their confluence make up the majestic 
flow of national greatness and prosperity. 



182 



DR. A. THOMPSON. 





CAPACITY OF CHILDREN. 

IMPROVEMENT depends far in but a little each day j they are like a 
less upon lengths of tasks and vase with a narrow neck ; you may pour 
hours of application than is little or pour much, but much will not 
supposed. Children can take enter at a time. michelet. 

183 



.^^tjF 



fl 0}ologh of a Baby. 




MOTHER little boy— the 
biggest there, but still lit- 
tle — was tottering to and 
fro, bent on one side, and 
considerably affected in his 
knees by the weight of a 
large baby, which he was 
supposed by a fiction that obtains some- 
times in sanguine families, to be hushing 
to sleep. But oh ! the inexhaustible re- 
gions of contemplation and watchfulness 
into which this baby's eyes were then only 
beginning to compose themselves to stare, 
over his unconscious shoulder ! 

It was a very Moloch of a baby, on 
whose insatiate altar the whole existence of 
this particular young brother was offered 
up a daily sacrifice. Its personality may 
be said to have consisted in its never being 
quiet in any one place, for five consecutive 
minutes, and never going to sleep when 
required. Tetterby's baby was as well 
known in the neighborhood as the post- 
man or the pot-boy. It roved from door- 
step to door-step in the arms of little 
Johnny Tetterby, and lagged heavily at 
the rear of troops of juveniles who followed 
the tumblers or the monkey, and came up, 
all on one side, a little too late for every- 
thing that was attractive, from Monday 
morning till Saturday night. Wherever 
childhood congregated to play, there was 
little Moloch making Johnny fag and toil. 
Whenever Johnny desired to stay, little 
Moloch became fractious, and would not 
remain. Whenever Johnny wanted to 
go out, Moloch was asleep and must be 
watched. Whenever Johnny wanted to 
stay at home, Moloch was aAvake and must 
be taken out. Yet Johnny was verily 



persuaded that it was a faultless baby, 
without its peer in the realm of England ; 
and was quite content to catch meek 
glimpses of things in general from behind 
its skirts, or over its limp flapping bonnet, 
and to go staggering about with it like a 
very little porter with a very large parcel, 
which was not directed to any body, and 
could never be delivered anywhere. 

CHARLES DICKENS. 



• J-o^o^. 



BOYISH HABITS. 



I HAVE sometimes thought of break- 
ing myself of what are termed boy- 
ish habits; but reflection has satis- 
fied me that it would be very foolish, and 
that I should esteem it a blessing that I 
can find amusement in everything, from 
tossing a cricket-ball to negotiating a 
treaty with the Emperor of China. Men 
who will give themselves entirely to busi- 
ness and despise (which is their tendency) 
trifles, may be very able in their general 
conception of the great outline of a plan, 
but they feel a want of knowledge, which 
is only to be gained by mixing with all 
classes in the world, when they come to 
those lesser points upon which its successful 
execution may depend. 

SIR JOHN MALCOLM. 



TWO things are absolutely necessary 
to young people : Exercise to ren- 
der them robust, and discipline to make 
them good and wise. 



PLATO. 



The boy who best learns all he can 
Will best succeed when he's a man. 



184 



y 



oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 



MOTHER AND CHILD. 



oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 



s~ 





HE wind blew wide the casement, and within — 
It was the loveliest picture ! — a sweet child 
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life, 
In pauses, from the fountain, — the white round 
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark, 
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm 
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees 
"With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips 
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast 
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower, 
Wore the same color, rich and warm and fresh: — 
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye, 
A full blue gem, most exquisitely set, 
Looked archly on its world, — the little imp, 
As if it knew even then that such a wreath 
Were not for all ; and with its playful hands 
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm, 
And peeped and laughed aloud, and so it laid 
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys, 
And, laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears 
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek, — 
Tears such as fall from April skies, and bring 
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy ; 
And the true heart of that young mother then 
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously 
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet 
Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep 
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch. 





CHILDREN A LOAN, 




OOD Christian people ! here lies for you an inestimable loan : take all heed 
thereof; in all carefulness employ it: with high recompense or else with 
heavy penalty, will it one day be required back. 



THOMAS CARLYLE. 



185 






FROM THE HANGING OF THE CRANE. 



GlEATED I see the two again, 
Vj But not alone ; they entertain 
I A little angel unaware, 
With face as round as is the moon ; 
A royal guest with flaxen hair. 
Who, throned upon his lofty chair, 
Drums on the table with his spoon, 
Then drops it careless on the floor, 
To grasp at things unseen before. 
Are these celestial manners ? these 
The ways that win, the arts that please 
Ah, yes ; consider well the guest, 
And whatsoe'er he does seems best, 
He ruleth by the right divine 
Of helplessness, so lately born 



In purple chambers of the morn, 
As sovereign over thee and thine. 
He speaketh not, and yet there lies 
A conversation in his eyes ; 
The golden silence of the Greek, 
The gravest wisdom of the wise, 
Not spoken in language, but in looks 
More legible than printed books, 
As if he could but would not speak. 
And now, monarch absolute 
Thy power is put to proof; for lo ! 
Resistless, fathomless, and slow, 
The nurse comes rustling like the sea, 
And pushes back the chair and thee, 
And so good night to King Canute. 

HENRY WADS WORTH LONGFELLOW. 



ooooooooooooooocooooooooooooooco 



o o o c o 



•t&JH^- 



3§ " Importance of a Child. 



%>• 



|HY mother's joy, thy father's hope thou bright, 

Bright pure dwelling, where two fond hearts keep their gladness ; 
Thou little potentate of love, who comest 
With solemn sweet dominion to the old, 
Who see thee in thy merry fancies charged 
With the grave embassage of that dear past, 
When they were young like thee, thou vindication 
Of God, thou living witness against all men 
Who have been babies, thou everlasting promise 
Which no man keeps, thou portrait of our nature, 
Which in despair and pride, we scorn and worship 
Thou household God, whom no iconoclast 
Hath broken ! 



SYDNEY DOBELL. 



186 



A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. 



A Child's First Impression of a Star. 

£Y HE had been told that God made all 

^^ the stars 

V^/ That twinkled up in heaven, and now 

she stood 
Watching the coming of the twilight on, 
As if it were a new and perfect world, 
And this were its first eve. She stood alone 
By the low window, with the silken lash 
Of her soft eye upraised, and her sweet mouth 
Half parted, with the new and strange delight 
Of beauty that she could not comprehend, 
And had not seen before. The purple folds 
Of the low sunset clouds, and the blue sky 
That look'd so still and delicate above, 
Fill'd her young heart with gladness, and the 

eve 
Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still 
Stood looking at the west with that half smile, 
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart. 
Presently, in the edge of the last tint 
Of sunset, where the blue was melted in 
To the faint golden mellowness, a star 
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight 
Burst from her lips, and putting up her hands, 
Her simple thought broke forth expressively — 
"Father! dear father! God has made a star!" 



WILLIS. 



§w%$ : 



Jmsi-fciriiJJMtUo 



fijtldim 




ITTLE children, love each other, 
Never give mother pain ; 
If your brother speak in anger, 
Answer not in wrath again. 

Be not selfish to each other, 
Never mar another's rest, 

Strive to make each other happy, 
And you will yourselves be blest. 



ON WITNESSING A BAPTISM. 

SHE stood up in the meekness of a heart 
Besting on God, and held her fair young 
child 
Upon her bosom, with its gentle eyes 
Folded in sleep, as if its soul had gone 
To whisper the baptismal vow in heaven. 



The prayer went up devoutly, and the lips 
Of the good man glow'd fervently with faith 
That it would be, even as he had pray'd, 
And the sweet child be gather'd to the fold 
Of Jesus. As the holy words went on 
Her lips moved silently, and tears, fast tears, 
Stole from beneath her lashes, and upon 
The forehead of the beautiful child lay soft 
With the baptismal water. Then I thought 
That, to the eye of God, that mother's tears 
Would be a deeper covenant — which sin 
And the temptations of the world, and death, 
Would leave unbroken — and that she would 

know 
In the clear light of heaven, how very strong 
The prayer which press'd them from her heart 

had been 
In leading its young spirit up to God. 



WILLIS . 



! -S-%— o— %-S-t, 



Undbi^ CQy Window. 

|: MjNDEB my window, under my window, 
mWj All in (he Midsummer weather, 

Three little girls with fluttering curls 
Flit to and fro together : — 
There's Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 
And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kate with her scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, 

Leaning stealthily over, 
Merry and clear, the voice I hear, 

Of each glad-hearted rover. 
Ah ! sly little Kate, she steals my roses ; 
And Maud and Bell twine wreaths and posies, 

As merry as bees in clover. 

Under my window, under my window, 
In the blue Midsummer weather, 

Stealing slow, on a hushed tip-toe, 
I catch them all together : — 

Bell with her bonnet of satin sheen, 

And Maud with her mantle of silver-green, 
And Kate with the scarlet feather. 

Under my window, under my window, 
And off through the orchard closes ; 

While Maud she flouts, and Bell she pouts, 
They scamper and drop their posies ; 

But dear little Kate takes nought amiss, 

And leaps in my arms with a loving kiss, 
And I give her all my roses. 

T. WESTWOOD. 



187 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD. 



RECOLLECTIONS OF BOYHOOD. 




\ E it a weakness, it deserves 
some praise ; 
"We love the play-place of 
our early days : 
The scene is touching, and 

the heart is stone 
That feels not at that sight, 
and feels at none. 
The wall on which we tried our graving 

skill, 
The very name we carved existing still ! 
The bench on which we sat while deep 

employed, 
Tho' mangled, hack'd and hew'd, not yet 

destroyed ; 
The little ones unbuttoned glowing hot, 
Playing our games, and on the very spot; 
As happy as we once, to kneel and draw 
The chalky ring, and knuckle down at taw: 
To pitch the ball into the grounded hat, 
Or drive it devious with dextrous pat. 
The pleasing spectacle at once excites 
Such recollection of our own delights, 
That, viewing it, we seem almost t' obtain 
Our innocent, sweet, simple years again. 
This fond attachment to the well-known 

place, 
When first we started into life's long race, 
Maintains its hold with such unfailing 

sway, 
We feel it even in age, at our latest day. 

W M . COWPER, 



DAISY AMONG TEE DAISIES. 

gjOOB. little Daisy ! So tired was she ! 
Mamma was busy as busy could be, — 
For house-cleaning time had arrived, 
you must know, 
And troublesome Daisy was brim-mil of woe; 
She tripped over this,— she stumbled in that,— 
And over a big roll of carpet fell flat ; 
She bumped her small nose 



Till 'twas red as a rose ; 

And, to crown her mishaps, 

Nursie trod on her toes : 

" Then, please, miss, just keep yourself out of 

the way," 
Growled nurse. Oh, wretched, uncomfortable 

day! 
Poor Daisy ! her questions unheeded, 
Her proffered assistance not needed, 
Scolded for nothing (she thought in her heart), 
Allowed in the wondrous commotion no part, — 
What wonder, at last, 
That she ran away fast 
To the beautiful fields, where all troubles were 

past, 
To the beautiful meadows, where daisies were 

growing, 
And where the tall grasses the soft wind was 

blowing ? 
There were bright yellow buttercups, brim-fuli 

of butter, 
And gayly- winged butterflies, all in a flutter ; 
And sweet clover-blossoms, that tempted the 

bees 
To steal all the honey their bee-ships might 

please ; 
And, right in the midst of these pleasures, 
The sunshine fell down 
Like a soft, golden crown, 
To rest on the field full of treasures, 
And kiss little Daisy, who sat in the grass, 
To talk to the butterflies — sweet little lass ! 
"0, dear Mr. Butterf'y, what do you think? 

My house isn't pleasant to-day ; 
For everyone's cross, and the cartips are up, 

And nurse said to ' get out of ze way.' 
So I've come to your house, and I'll be just as 
dood 
As a little dirl ever can be — 
0, dear Mr. Butterf'y, zat ain't polite, 

When I'm talking, to fly off from me ! " 
But off o'er the meadow the butterfly soared, 
Unheeding his wee little guest, truth to tell ; 
And Daisy decided to visit awhile 

The little white 'fowers' she liked so well. 
So, where the fair daisies kept house together, 
Half hidden 'mongst grasses as high as her 
head, 
Our dear little Daisy, so tired, grew sleepy, 
And borrowed a part of the wild flowers' bed. 
And there, while the sunshine was stealing 

about 
Her sweet sleeping-place, with a peep in and 
out, — 



188 



DAISY AMONG THE DAISIES. 



Now leaving a kiss on the soft, yellow hair. 
Now trying to brown the dimpled cheeks fan, — 
Little Daisy all drowsily talked to the flowers, 
While minutes were hastening to make up the 

hours : 
" How fttnny it is, I think, don't you '? 
That I'm a daisy, and you are, too ! 
But then, I'm mamma's daisy, and so 
/ don't live in the grass and grow. 
I don't know where I came from, though ; 
Maybe I used to be a little thing, 
All yellow in the middle, with a little wing, 
Growing out all wound, and just as white 
As yours ! " Here Daisy laid a finger light 
Upon the soft white leaves beside her cheek. 
" 0, little bit of f ; ower-daisy, speak 
To me ! Tell me, do you know 
If you, some day, a little dirl will gwow? 
Maybe a mamma'll come and get you, 
And, if the sunshine-mother '11 let you. 
Go away from all the others, — 
All your f ! ower sisters and brothers ; 
And then you "11 be a httle live dirl, 
And maybe your hair will twist and turl, 
And make you cry when nursie combs it, jus' 
As J do cry, and, nurse says, 'mate a fuss.' 
Mamma don't love her girl-daisy to-day, ■ 
And that is why I runned so fast away. 
I wish a birdie please would sing a song, 
I'm just as sleepy as — as — " Ah ! ere long 
The tired eyelids, over tired eyes. 
Fell softly down, beneath the summer skies. 

MARY D. BRINE. 



©he Haughty Bai^n. 



HE bairnie sat on the hillock hard, 
The bright little brook beside, 
1th a world of care on his bonnie 
face, 
And the tears on his cheeks scarce dried. 




He put his books in his satchel worn, 
And kissed the mother good-bye ; 

And smiled at her caution to walk in the 
road, 
For the grass was scarcely dry. 

The naughty bairn ! he had in his mind 

How merry it would be 
To go and sit by the babbling brook, 

And the pebbles and flowers see. 

He could not bear to think of the school, 
And the long, long, tiresome day; 

So he laid his satchel "neath the old stone 
wall. 
And hied to the brook away. 

He tossed the pebbles in the waters bright. 

And plucked the sweet wild flowers ; 
And thought what a merry way this was 

To spend the morning hours. 

So he merrily played till the sun went down. 

In a sea of crimson fire ; 
And he saw o'er the meadows slowly creep 

The shadow of the village spire. 

And then he remembered he must go home, 
And he thought of his mother's frown ; 

And then first he saw his mud-soiled hands, 
And the stains on his best school gown. 

And somehow the brook as it rippled along, 
Sang a quaint and a sad, sad lay ; 

It sang to the bairn of the stolen hours, 
And the lost and wasted day. 

And home through the gloaming the 
bairnie strayed, 

But the smile of the day was gone; 
For, child as he was, he felt the grief 

That always follows wrong. 



A naughty boy the bairn had been, 
He had strayed from school away, 

For the lessons were hard, and he could 
not learn. 
And he longed, oh, he longed to play. 



Though the doing wrong may seem merry 
and light, 

The mem'ry is cold and chill ; 
And the only pleasure we can truly know 

Is doing the Father's will. 



189 



THE SCHOOL BOY. 






-*-■ 



WE bought him a box for his books 
and things, 
And a cricket-bag for his bat; 
And he looked the brightest and 
best of kings 
Under his new straw hat. 
We handed him into the railway train 
With a troop of his young compeers, 
And we made as though it were dust and 
rain 
Were filling our eyes with tears. 
We looked in his innocent face to see 

The sign of a sorrowful heart ; 
But he only shouldered his bat with glee 
And wondered when they would start. 
'Twas not that he loved not as heretofore, 

For the boy was tender and kind ; 
But his was a world that was all before, 

And ours was a world behind. 
'Twas not his fluttering heart was cold, 

For the child was loyal and true ; 
And the parents love the love that is old, 
And the children the love that is new. 
And we came to know that love is a flower 

Which only groweth down ; 
And we scarcely spoke for the space of an 
hour 
As we drove back through the town. 



€€' 



99 



t 



'^HAT shall we do?" the children said, 
By the spirit of frolic and mischief 
led, 

Frank and Lulu and Carrie, three 
As full of nonsense as they could be : 
Who never were known any fun to stop 
Until they were just about ready to drop. 
Frank, whose "knowledge-box" surely 

abounds 
With games, spoke up for "Hare and 

Hounds." 
" Down the cellar or up the stair, 
Here and there, and everywhere, 



You must follow, for I'm the Hare!" 
Lulu and Carrie gave quick consent, 
And at cutting their papers and capers went, 
For the stairs were steep, and they must not 

fail 
To have enough for a good long trail. 
Away went the Hare 
Right up the stair, 
And away went the Hounds, a laughing 

pair; 

And Tony, who sat 
Near Kitty, the cat, 
And was really a dog worth looking at, 
With a queer grimace 
Soon joined the race, 
And followed the game at a lively pace ! 
Then puss, who knew 
A thing or two, 
Prepared to follow the noisy crew, 
And never before or since, I ween, 
Was ever beheld such a hunting scene ! 
The Hare was swift; and the papers went 
This way and that, to confuse the scent; 
But Tony, keeping his nose in air, 
In a very few moments betrayed the Hare, 
Which the children told him was hardly 

fair. 
I can not tell you how long they played, 
Of the fun they had, or the noise they 

made ; 
For the best of things in this world, I think, 
Can ne'er be written with pen and ink. 
But Bridget, who went on her daily rounds, 
Picking up after the "Hare and Hounds," 
Said she didn't mind hearing their lively 

capers, 
But her back was broke with scraps o' 

papers. 
Carrie, next day, couldn't raise her head • 
Frank and Lulu were sick in bed ; 
The dog and the cat were a used-up pair, 
And all of them needed the doctor's care. 
The children themselves can hardly fail 
To tack a moral upon this trail ; 
And I guess on rather more level grounds 
They'll play their next game of " Hare and 

Hounds." 



JOSEPHINE POLLARD. 



190 



*oo. occooooococcooocccoocoooooooc 



G\ 



1 






'ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooc* 



t^_ 



THE clock strikes seven in the hall, 
The curfew of the children's day, 
That calls each little pattering foot 
From dance and song and lively play ; 
Their day that in a wider light 
Floats like a silver day-moon white, 
Nor in our darkness sinks to rest, 
But sets within a golden west. 

Ah, tender hour that sends a drift 

Of children's kisses through the house, 
And cuckoo notes of sweet "Good night," 

That thoughts of heaven and home arouse, 
And a soft stir to sense and heart, 
As when the bee and blossom part ; 
And little feet that patter slower, 
Like the last droppings of a shower. 

And in the children's room aloft, 
What blossom shapes do gaily slip 

Their daily sheaths, and rosy run 
From clasping hand and kissing lip, 

A naked sweetness to the eye — 

Blossom and babe and butterfly 

In witching one, so dear a sight ' 

An ecstasy of life and light. 

Then lily-drest, in angel white, 

To mother's knee they trooping come. 
The soft palms fold like kissing shells, 
And they and we go singing home— 
Their bright heads bowed and worshiping, 
As though some glory of the spring, 
Some daffodil that mocks the day, 
Should fold his golden palms and pray. 

The gates of paradise swing wide 

A moment's space in soft accord, 
And those dread angels, Life and Death, 

A moment veil the flaming sword, 
As o'er this weary world forlorn 
From Eden's secret heart is borne 
That breath of Paradise most fair, 
"Which mothers call " the children's prayer.'' 

Then kissed, on beds we lay them down, 
As fragrant white as clover'd sod, 

And all the upper floors grow hushed 
With children's sleep, and dews of God. 



And as our stars their beams do hide, 
The stars of twilight, opening wide, 
Take up the heavenly tale at even, 
And light us on to God and heaven. 



JANE ELLIS HOPKINS. 



"NOT LOST, BUTjONE BEFORE," 

r s ^OW mournful seems, in broken dreams. 
ml? The memory of the day, 

When icy Death hath seal'd the breath 
Of some dear form of clay. 

When pale, unmoved, the face we loved, 

The face we thought so fair, 
And the hand lies cold, whose fervent hold 

Once charm'd away despair. 

Oh, what could heal the grief we feel 

For hopes that come no more, 
Had we ne'er heard the Scripture word, 

" Not lost, but gone before." 

Oh sadly yet with vain regret 

The widow's heart must yearn ; 
And mothers weep their babes asleep 

In the sunlights's vain return. 

The brother's heart shall rue to part 

From the one through childhood known ; 

And the orphan's tears lament for years 
A friend and father gone. 

For death and life, with ceaseless strife, 

Beat wild on this world's shore, 
And all our calm is in that balm, 

" Not lost, but gone before." 

Oh ! world wherein nor death, nor sin, 

Nor Aveary warfare dwells ; 
Their blessed home we parted from 

With sobs and sad farewells. 

Where eyes awake, for whose dear sake 

Our own with tears grow dim, 
And faint accords of dying words 

Are changed for heaven's sweet hymn ; 

Oh ! there at last, life's trials past, 
We'll meet our loved once more, 

Whose feet have trod the path to God — 
" Not lost, but gone before." 

HON. MRS. NORTON. 



191 



LITTLE CHILDREN. 




PORTING through the forest wide, 
Playing by the water side, 
Waudering o'er the heather fells, 
Down within the woodland delist 

All among the mountains wild, 

Dwelleth many a little child. 

In the rich man's house so wide, 
By the poor man's snug fireside, 
'Mid the mighty, 'mid the mean, 
Little children may be seen; 
Like the flowers which spring up fair, 
Bright and countless everywhere ! 

In the fair isles of the main, 
In the desert's lone domain, 
In the savage mountain glen, 
'Mong the tribes of swarthy men, 
Wheresoe'er a foot hath gone, 
Wheresoe'er the sun hath shone 
On a league of peopled ground, 
Little children may be found ! 

Blessings on them ! they, in me, 
Move a kindly sympathy, 
With their wishes, hopes, and fears, 
With their laughter and their tears, 
With their wonders, so intense, 
And their small experience. 

Little children not alone 
On the spacious earth are known, 
'Mid its labors and its cares, 
'Mid its sufferings and its snares ; 

Free from sorrow, free from strife, 
In the world of love and life, 
Where no sinful thing hath trod — 
In the presence of our God, 
Spotless, blameless, glorified, 
Little children there abide ! 



W 



E miss her footfall on the floor, 
Amidst the nursery din, 

Her tip-tap at our bedroom door, 
Her bright face peeping in. 



MARY HOWITT. 



And when to Heaven's high court above 

Ascends our social prayer, 
Though there are voices that we love, 

One sweet voice is not there. 

And dreary seem the hours, and lone, 

That drag themselves along, 
Now from our board her smile is gone, 

And from our hearth her song. 

We miss that farewell laugh of hers, 

With its light joyous sound, 
And the kiss between the balusters, 

When goodnight time comes round. 

And empty is her little bed, 

And on her pillow there 
Must never rest that cherub head 

With its soft silken hair. 

But often as we wake and weep, 
Our midnight thoughts will roam, 

To visit her cold, dreamless sleep, 
In her last narrow home. 

Then, then it is Faith'c tear-dimm'd eyes 

See through ethereal space, 
Amidst the angel-crowded skies, 

That dear, that well-known face. 

With beckoning hand she seems to say, 
" Though, all her sufferings o'er, 

Your little one is borne away 
To the celestial shore, 

Doubt not she longs to welcome you 

To her glad, bright abode, 
There happy endless ages through 

To live with her and God." 



192 




BENNY'S QUESTIONS. 



c^oVe?^ 



HAT is the kitty good for ? 
My little boy Benny said. 



To catch the mice in the pantry 
When they nibble mamma's bread, 
To sit on the -rug in the sunshine, 
To play with her little toes, 
And if kitty is good for anything else, 
It is more than mamma knows. 

What is the mooly cow good for, 
Mamma? I'd like to know. 

To eat green grass in the pastures 

Where the meadow-lilies grow, 

To give us sweet golden butter, 

Rich milk, and yellow cream, 

And a great many more good presents 

Than Benny could even dream. 

What are the busy bees good for — 
To sting little boys ? asked he. 

There is many a lesson my boy could learn 

From even a busy bee 

For he works all day in the summer 

Laying sweet treasures by 

For the long cold days that are coming, 

When roses and violets die. 

What is old Rover good for ? 
I'm sure I can not see. 

To teach my Benny how patient 
Even a brute can be ; 
To watch papa's house at midnight, 
When the lamps are all out in the street, 
So, Benny, take care of good Rover, 
And give him enough to eat. 

What is my mamma good for ? 
The little rogue laughing said. 



Oh, Benny, my boy, I answered, 
As I pillowed his sunshiny head, 
Your mamma is good for nothing 
If she can not teach her child 
To follow the Infant Saviour, 
So loving, tender, and mild. 



FOUR TEARS OLD. 

OH, sun ! so far up in the blue sky ; 
Oh, clovers ! so white and so sweet ; 
Oh, little brook ! shining like silver, 
And running so fast past my feet, — 

You don't know what strange thing has 

happened 
Since sunset and star-shine last night ; 
Since the four-o'clocks closed their red 

petals 
To wake up so early and bright. 

Say, what will you think when I tell you 
What my dear mamma whispered to me, 
When she kissed me on each cheek twice 

over? 
You don't know what a man you may see ! 

Sweet-clover, stand still ; do not blow so : 
I shall whisper way down in your ear, 
I was four years old early this morning ! 
Would you think so, to see me, my dear ? 

Do you notice my pants and two pockets ? 
I'm so old, I must dress like a man ; 
I must learn to read books and write letters, 
And I'll write one to you when I can. 

My pretty gold butterflies flying, 
Little birds, and my busy brown bee, 
I shall never be too old to love you ; 
And I hope that you'll always love me ! 



FANNY BENEDICT. 



193 



13 




msrw amco^iimiOT^ 





" Honor thy father and thy mother." 



ATHER and mother ! sacred names and dear ; 
The sweetest music to the infant ear, 
And dearer still to those, a joyous band, 
Who sport in childhood's bright enchanted land. 

And when, as years roll on, night follows day, 
The young wax old and loved ones pass away, 
Through mists of time yet holier and more dear, 
" Father and mother " sound to memory's ear. 

The days, the hours, the moments as they speed, 
Each crowned by loving thought or word or deed, 
Oh, heart's long-suffering, self-denying ! sure 
Earth holds no love more true, and none so pure. 

Thou happy child whom a good God hath given 
A parents' shelt'ring home, that earthly heaven, 
Where ceaseless care, where tireless love and true, 
Nurse thy young life as flowers are nursed by dew, 

E'en as the flowers, for the dear debt they owe, 
Bloom, and sweet odors in rich meed bestow, 
Let the fair blossoms of thy love and duty 
Cluster about thy home in fragrant beauty. 

Never from eye or lip be seen or heard 
The sullen glance or the rebellious word, 
And never wilfully or heedless pain 
The tender hearts that cannot wound again. 

But fond caress, sweet smile and loving tone, 
Obedience prompt and glad, be thine alone, 
For filial love, like mercy, is twice blest ; 
While to the parent of earth's joys the best, 
Richer than treasures of the land or sea, 
It wins God's blessing, O my child, for thee I 



194 



IADGE, wee woman with earnest look, 
♦Wf* Is head and ears in a fairy book ; 
Rob is a rogue with hair of tow. 
Last but greatest is Baby Joe. 



Fastened down there 

In the big arm-chair, 
Stiff and angular, strong and square. 
He can't get up and he can't slide out ; 
Nothing to do but to wriggle about, 
Suck his thumbs and his rubber ring, 
And wonder vaguely about his shoes 
(Sbiny and small such as babies use), 
How they ever came on his feet. 
If they're made to look at, or only to eat ? 
Thinks quite strongly of making a spring 
In the hope of breaking the naughty thing 
That holds him a prisoner snug and tight 
In that tiresome chair from morning till 
night. 



But here comes Rob with a funny face. 
Baby looks up and takes heart of grace ; 
All his sorrows and griefs are past ; 
Here is something to do at last. 
He gurgles and crows 
And wrinkles his nose, 
"With one little dimple that comes and 

goes ; 
He stretches an arm with a doubled-up 

fist, 
Soft and rosy from elbow to wrist, 
For Rob has been puffing his red cheeks 

out 
Till they look like big apples he's holding 

there, 
Ripe and shining and smooth and fair. 
Baby Joe strikes hard with his fist of pink 
At the puckered-up lips, then quicker than 

wink 
Rob jumps to his feet with a laugh and a 

shout, 



And capers and dances and whirls about. 
But the best of the play is, that when it is 

done 
They can play it all over again, 
Such fun ! 

CARRIE H. THOMPSON. 




GASA WAPPY. 



JXD hast thou sought thy heavenly home, 
Our fond, dear boy — 
The realms where sorrow dare not come, 
"Where life is joy ? 
Pure at thy death, as at thy birth, 
Thy spirit caught no taint from earth ; 
Even by its bliss we meet our dearth, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Despair was in our last farewell, 

As closed thine eye ; 
Tears of our anguish may not tell 

When thou didst die; 
Words may not paint our grief for thee ; 
Sighs are but bubbles on the sea 
Of our unfathomecl agony ; 
Casa Wappy ! 

Thou wert a vision of delight, 

To bless us given ; 
Beauty embodied to our sight — 

A type of heaven ! 
So dear to us thou wert, thou art 
Even less thine own self, than a part 
Of mine, and of thy mother's heart, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Thy bright, brief day knew no decline — 

'T was cloudless joy ; 
Sunrise and night alone were thine, 

Beloved boy I 
This moon beheld thee blythe and gay ; 
That found thee prostrate in decay ; 
And ere a third shone, clay was clay, 
Casa Wappy ! 



* The self-appellative of a beloved child. 



195 



CASA WAPPY. 



Gem of our hearth, our household pride, 

Earth's undefiled, 
Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, 

Our dear, sweet child ! 
Humbly we bow to Fate's decree ; 
Yet had we hoped that Time should see 
Thee mourn for us, not us for thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Do what I may, go where I will, 

Thou meet'st my sight ; 
There dost thou glide before me still — 

A form of light! 
I feel thy breath upon my cheek — 
I see thee smile, I hear thee speak — 
Till oh ! my heart is like to break, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Methinks thou smil'st before me now, 

With glance of stealth ; 
The hair thrown back from thy full brow 

In buoyant health ; 
I see thine eyes' deep violet light — 
Thy dimpled cheek carnation bright — 
Thy clasping arms so round and white — 
Casa Wappy ! 

The nursery shows thy pictured wall, 

Thy bat — thy bow — 
Thy cloak and bonnet — club and ball ; 

But where art thou ? 
A corner holds thine empty chair; 
Thy playthings, idly scattered there, 
But speak to us of our despair, 
Casa Wappy ! 

Even to the last, thy every word — 

To glad — to grieve — 
Was sweet, as sweetest song of bird 

On Summer's eve ; 
In outward beauty undecayed, 
Death o'er thy spirit cast no shade, 
And, like the rainbow, thou didst fade, 
Casa Wappy ! 

We mourn for thee, when blind, blank night 

The chamber fills ; 
We pine for thee, when morn's first light 

Reddens the hills ; 
The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, 
All — to the wall-flower and wild-pea — 
Are changed ; we saw the world thro' thee, 
Casa Wappy ! 

And though, perchance, a smile may gleam 

Of casual mirth, 
It doth not own, whate'er may seem, 

An inward birth : 



We miss thy small step on the stair ; — 
We miss thee at thine evening prayer ; 
All day we miss thee — everywhere — 
Casa Wappy ! 

Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, 

In life's spring-bloom, 
Down to the appointed house below — 

The silent tomb. 
But now the green leaves of the tree, 
The cuckoo, and " the busy bee," 
Beturn — but with them bring not thee, 

Casa Wappy ! 
'T is so ; but can it be — while flowers 

Bevive again — 
Man's doom, in death that we and ours 

For aye remain ? 
Oh ! can it be, that, o'er the grave, 
The grass renewed should yearly wave, 
Yet God forget our child to save ? — 

Casa Wappy ! 
It cannot be ; for were it so 

Thus man could die, 
Life were a mockery — thought were woe— 

And truth a lie ; — 
Heaven were a coinage of the brain — 
Beligion frenzy — virtue vain — 
And all our hopes to meet again, 

Casa Wappy ! 
Then be to us, dear, lost child ! . 

With beam of love, 
A star, death's uncongenial wild 

Smiling above ! 
Soon, soon, thy little feet have trod 
The skyward path, the seraph's road, 
That led thee back from man to God, 

Casa Wappy ! 
Yet, 't is sweet balm to our despair, 

Fond, fairest boy, 
That Heaven is God's, and thou art there, 

With him in joy ; 
There past are death and all its woes ; 
There beauty's stream for ever flows ; 
And pleasure's clay no sunset knows, 

Casa Wappy ! 
Farewell then — for a while, farewell — 

Bride of my heart ! 
It cannot be that long we dwell, 

Thus torn apart. 
Time's shadows like the shuttle flee ; 
And, dark howe'er life's night may be, 
Beyond the grave, I'll meet with thee, 
Cassy Wappy ! 



DAVID MACBETH MOIR. 



196 



<& 




A 



v£ 



1 CANNOT make him dead ! 
His fair sunshiny head 
Is ever bounding round my study chair ; 
Yet, when my eyes, now dim 
With tears, I turn to him, 
The vision vanishes — he is not there ! 

I walk my parlor floor, 

And, through the open door, 
I hear a footfall on the chamber stair : 

I'm stepping toward the hall 

To give the boy a call ; 
And then bethink me that — he is not there ! 

I thread the crowded street ; 

A satchelled lad I meet. 
With the same beaming eyes and colored hair 

And, as he's running by, 

Follow him with my eye, 
Scarcely believing that — he is not there ! 

I know his face is hid 

Under the coffin lid ; 
Closed are his eyes ; cold is his forehead fair ; 

My hand that marble felt ; 

O'er it in prayer I knelt ; 
Yet my heart whispers that — he is not there ! 

I cannot make him dead ! 

When passing by the bed, 
So long watched over with parental care, 

My spirit and my eye 

Seek him inquiringly, 
Before the thought comes that — he is not there ! 

When, at the cool, gray break 

Of day, from sleep I wake, 
With my first breathing of the morning air 

My soul goes up, with joy, 

To Him who gave my boy ; 
Then comes the sad thought that — he is not 
there ! 

When at the day's calm close, 

Before we seek repose, 
I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer : 

Whate'er I may be saying, 

I am in spirit praying 
For our boy's spirit, though— he is not there! 



Not there ! — Where, then, is he ? 

The form I used to see 
Was but the raiment that he used to wear. 

The grave, that now doth press 

Upon that cast-off dress, 
Is but his wardrobe locked ; — he is not there ! 

He lives ! — In all the past 

He lives ; nor, to the last, 
Of seeing him again will I despair ; 

In dreams I see him now ; 

And, on his angel brow, 
I see it written, " Thou shalt see me there!" 

Yes, we all live to God ! 

Father, thy chastening rod 
So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, 

That, in the spirit land, 

Meeting at thy right hand, 
'T will be our heaven to find that — he is there ! 

JOHN PIERPONT. 



H 



NDERNEATH the sod low lying, 
Dark and drear, 
Sleepeth one who left, in dying, 
Sorrow here. 



Yes ! they're ever bending o'er her 

Eyes that weep, 
Forms that to the cold grave bore her 

Vigils keep. 

When the summer moon is shining, 

Soft and fair, 
Friends she loved, in tears are twining 

Chaplets there. 

Rest in peace, thou gentle spirit, 

Throned above ! 
Souls like thine with God inherit 

Life and love ! 



JAMES T. FIELDS, 



197 



THE OPEN WINDOW. 



The 6pen Window. 



, l|HE old house by the lindens 
Stood silent in the shade, 
And on the gravelled pathway 
The light and shadow played. 

I saw the nursery windows 

Wide open to the air; 
But the faces of the children, 

They were no longer there. 

The large Newfoundland house-dog 

Was standing by the door ; 
He looked for his little playmates, 

Who would return no more. 

They walked not under the lindens, 
They played not in the hall ; 

But shadow, and silence, and sadness 
Were hanging over all. 

The birds sang in the branches, 

With sweet familiar tone ; 
But the voices of the children 

Will be heard in dreams alone ! 

And the boy that walked beside me, 

He could not understand 
Why closer in mine, ah ! closer, 

I pressed his warm, soft hand ! 

H. \V. LONGFELLOW. 



SHE CAME AND WENT. 



AS a twig trembles, which a bird 
Lights on to sing, then leaves 
unbent, 
So is my memory thrilled and stirred ; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven, 
The blue dome's measureless content, 

So my souhheld that moment's heaven; — 
I only know she came and went. 

As at one bound our swift Spring heaps 
The orchards full of bloom and scent, 

So clove her May my wintry sleeps; — 
I only know she came and went. 



An angel stood and met my gaze, 

Through the low doorway of my tent ; 

The tent is struck, the vision stays; — 
I only know she came and went. 

Oh, when the room grows slowly dim, 
And when the oil is nearly spent, 

One gush of light these eyes will brim, 
Only to think she came and went. 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. 



^>H those little, those little blue shoes ! 

Those shoes that no little feet use. 
Oh the price were high 
That those shoes would buy, 

Those little blue unused shoes ! 

For they hold the small shape of feet 
That no more their mother's eyes meet, 

That, by God's good will, 

Years since, grew still, 
And ceased from their totter so sweet. 

And oh, since that baby slept, 

So hushed, how the mother has kept, 

With a tearful pleasure, 

That little dear treasure, 
And o'er them thought and wept ! 

For they mind her for evermore 
Of a patter along the floor; 

And blue eyes she sees 

Look up from her knees 
With the look that in life they wore. 

As they lie before her there, 
There babbles from chair to chair 
A little sweet face 
That's a gleam in the place, 
With its little gold curls of hair. 

Then oh, wonder not that her heart 
From all else would rather part 

Than those tiny blue shoes 

That no little feet use, 
And whose sight makes such fond tears 



start ! 



WILLIAM C. BENNETT. 



198 




IT St,©© 1 ® 



^Ve^WtsVa^ 





/ E had black 
eyes with long 
lashes, red 
cheeks, and 
hair almost 

> black and almost 

> curly. He wore 
a crimson plaid 
jacket, with full 
trowsers, buttoned 
on ; had a habit 
of whistling, and 
liked to ask ques- 
tions ; was accompanied by a small, black 
dog. It is a long while now since he dis- 
appeared. I have a very pleasant house 
and much company. My guests say, 
" Ah ! it is pleasant here ! Everything 
has such an orderly, put-away look — 
nothing under foot, no dirt !" 

But my eyes are aching for the sight of 
whittlings and cut paper upon the floor, 
of tumble- down card-houses, of wooden 
sheep and cattle, of pop-guns, bows and 
arrows, whips, tops, go-carts, blocks, and 
trumpery. I want to see boats a rigging, 
and kites a making, crumbles on the car- 
pet, and paste spilt on the kitchen table. 
I want to see the chairs and tables turned 
the wrong way about. I want to see candy- 
making and corn-popping, and to find 
jack-knives and fish-hooks among my 
muslins. Yet these things used to fret me 
once. 

They say, " How quiet you are here ! 
Ah ! one here may settle his brains, and 
be at peace." But my ears are aching for 
the pattering of little feet, for a hearty 
shout, a shrill whistle, a gay tra la la, for 
the crack of little whips, for the noise of 



drums, fifes, and tin trumpets ; yet these 
things made me nervous once. 

They say, "Ah! you have leisure — 
nothing to disturb you ; what heaps of 
sewing you have time for !" But I long 
to be asked for a bit of string or an old 
newspaper, for a cent to buy a slate pencil 
or pea-nuts. I want to be coaxed for a 
piece of new cloth for jibs or main-sails, 
and then to hem the same. I want to 
make little flags, and bags to hold mar- 
bles. I want to be followed by little feet 
all over the house, teasing for a bit of 
dough for a little cake, or to bake a pie in 
a saucer. Yet these things used to fidget 
me once. 

They say, "Ah! you are not tied at 
home. How delightful to be always at 
liberty to go to concerts, lectures, and 
parties! No confinement for you." 

But I want confinement. I want to 
listen for the school-bell mornings, to give 
the last hasty wash and brush, and then 
to watch from the window nimble feet 
bounding to school. I want frequent rents 
to mend, and to replace lost buttons. I 
want to obliterate mud-stains, fruit-stains, 
molasses-stains, and paints of all colors. 
I want to be sitting by a little crib of 
evenings, when weary feet are at rest, and 
prattling voices are hushed that mothers 
may sing their lullabies, and tell over the 
oft-repeated stories. They don't know 
their happiness then — those mothers. I 
didn't. All these things I called confine- 
ment once. 

A manly figure stands before me now. 
He is taller than I ; has thick, black 
whiskers, and wears a frock-coat, bosomed 
shirt, and cravat. He has just come from 



199 



BOY LOST. 



college. He brings Latin and Greek in 
his countenance, and busts of the old 
philosophers for the sitting-room. He 
calls me mother, but I am rather unwill- 
ing to own him. 

He stoutly declares that he is my boy, 
and says that he will prove it. He brings 
me a small pair of white trousers, with 
gay stripes at the sides, and asks if I didn't 
make them for him when he joined the 
boys' militia. He says he is the very boy, 
too, that made the bonfire near the barn, 
so that we came very near having a fire in 
earnest. He brings his little boat, to show 
the red strip on the sail (it was the end of 
the piece,) and the name on the stern — 
" Lucy Low " — a little girl of our neigh- 
borhood, who, because of her long curls 
and pretty round face, was the chosen 
favorite of my little boy. Her curls were 
long since cut off, and she has grown to 
be a tall, handsome girl. How the red 
comes to his face when he shows me the 
name on the boat ! Oh ! I see it all, as 
plain as if it were written in a book. My 
little boy is lost, and my big boy will soon 
be. Oh ! I wish he were a little tired boy 
in a long white night-gown, lying in his 
crib, with me sitting by, holding his hand 
in mine, pushing the curls back from his 
forehead, watching his eyelids droop, and 
listening to his deep breathing. 

If I only had my little boy again, how 
patient I would be ! How much I would 
bear, and how little I would fret and 
scold ! I can never have him back again ; 
but there are still many mothers who 
haven't yet lost their little boys. I won- 
der if they know they are living their very 
best days — that now is the time to really 
enjoy their children, I think if I had been 
more to my little boy, I might now be 
more to my grown-up one. 

200 



W 



HEN the baby died, we said, 
"With a sudden, secret dread : 



" Death, be merciful, and pass ; — 
Leave the other !" — but alas ! 

While we watched he waited there, 
One foot on the golden stair, 
One hand beckoning at the gate, 
Till the home was desolate. 

Friends say, " It is better so, 
Clothed in innocence to go;" 
Say, to ease the parting pain, 
That "your loss is but their gain." 

Ah ! the parents think of this ! 
But remember more the kiss 
From the little rose-red lips; 
And the print of finger-tips. 

Left upon the broken toy, 
Will remind them how the boy 
And his sister charmed the days 
With their pretty, winsome ways. 

Only time can give relief 
To the weary, lonesome grief: 
God's sweet minister of pain 
Then shall sing of loss and gain. 



NORA PERRY. 



— «t>»-^"^»— =>•— 



Let no fond sire a boy's ambition trust 
To make him study, let him see he must. 



C R AB B E . 



I 



T is with youth as with plants ; from 
the first fruits they bear we learn 
what may be expected of them in the 
future. 

DEMOPHILUS. 




v «s^~ 



USH, my dear ! Lie still and 

slumber ! 
Holy angels guard thy bed ! 
HeaA^enly blessings without 

number, 
Gently falling on thy head. 

Sleep, my babe! thy food 

and raiment, 
House and home, thy 
friends provide ; 
All without thy care or payment, 
All thy wants are well supplied. 

How much better thou'rt attended 

Than the son of God could be, 
When from heaven He descended, 

And became a child like thee ! 

Soft and easy is thy cradle : 

Coarse and hard thy Saviour lay, 

When His birthplace was a stable 
And His softest bed was hay. 

Blessed Babe ! what glorious features, — 

Spotless fair, divinely bright I 
Must He dwell with brutal creatures ? 

How could angels bear the sight ? 

Was there nothing but a manger 

Cursed sinners could afford, 
To receive the heavenly stranger? 

Did they thus affront the Lord ? 

Soft, my child ! I did not chide thee, 
Though my song might sound too hard ; 

'Tis thy mother sits beside thee, 
And her arm shall be thy guard. 

Yet to read the shameful story. 

How the Jews abused their King, 
How they served the Lord of glory, 

Makes me angry while I sing. 

See the kinder shepherds round Him, 

Telling wonders from the sky ! 
Where they sought Him, there they found Him, 

With His virgin mother by. 

See the lovely babe a-dressing ; 

Lovely Infant, how He smiled ! 
When He wept, His mother's blessing 

Sooth'd and hush'd the holy Child. 



Lo, He slumbers in a manger, 

Where the horned oxen fed : — 
Peace, nay darling, here's no danger : 

There's no ox a-near thy bed. 

'Twas to save thee, child, from dying, 
Save my dear from burning flame, 

Bitter groans and endless crying, 
That thy blest Eedeemer came. 

May'st thou live to know and fear Him, 
Trust and love Him all thy days, 

Then go dwell for ever near Him ; 
See His face, and sing His praise ! 

I could give thee thousand kisses ! 

Hoping what I most desire, 
Not a mother's fondest wishes 

Can to greater joys aspire ! 

ISAAC WATTS. 



GOLDEN-TRESSED ADELAIDE. 

A SONG FOR A CHILD. 

£T ING, I pray, a little song, 
/j\ Mother clear ! 

*TT Neither sad nor very long : 
It is for a little maid, 
Golden tressed Adelaide ! 
Therefore let it suit a merry, merry ear, 
Mother dear ! 

Let it be a merry strain, 

Mother dear! 
Shunning e'en the thought of pain : 
For our gentle child will weep 
If the theme be dark and deep ; 
And we will not draw a single, single tear, 

Mother dear ! 

Childhood should be all divine, 

Mother dear! 
And like an- endless summer shine ; 
Gay as Edward's shouts and cries, 
Bright as Agnes' azure eyes : 
Therefore bid thy song be merry: — dost 
thou hear, 
Mother dear ? 



BRYAN WALLER PROCTER. 



201 



TWO 


SCHOOL BOYS. 



TWO SCHOOL BOYS. 

THE MOANING SONG. 



C^JrfWO school-boys on their way to 
*M 1 school 

\^y I day by day was meeting; 
• Yet though I met them day by day, 
We each and all pursued our way, 
Nor exchanged a friendly greeting. 

At last I got to nod and smile, 

To smile they, too, were willing ; 
And then I used to stop and stand, 
And often shake them by the hand, 
And sometimes tip a shilling. 

Till it became a daily treat 

To meet these morning scholars : 
I loved to see their merry looks, 
Though schoolward bound, with bag of 

books, 
Bright cheeks, and shining collars. 

Soon came the summer holidays, 
And when they were half over, 

I took a trip to Germany, 

And three months passed away ere I 
Recrossed the straits of Dover. 

Again I took that old, old walk — 
What time the leaves were yellow, 

The autumn day was very still — 

Just at the bottom of the hill 
I met one little fellow. 

He hailed me with a joyful cry 

Of joy fullest delectation : 
I laughed to see him laughing so. 
" But where's our friend ?" " What ! don't 
you know? 

He died in the vacation." 

How was it that I turned aside, 
With rough, abruptest bearing? 

No matter ; on the instant I 

Turned off, nor even said, " Good-bye," 
And left the youngster staring. 



S 



ING, little daughter, sing ; 

Sing me your morning song, 
Thanking our Father for His love 
And care the whole night long. 



Sing out with cheerful heart, 
Sing out with cheerful voice ; 

The tones of gratitude to God 
Will make my heart rejoice. 

Thank Him for parents dear, 
Thy father and thy mother ; 

Thank Him for little sister Bess, 
Thank Him for little brother. 

Thank Him for pleasant home, 
Thank Him for many a friend, 
For mercies which we can not count 
For mercies without end. 

Thank Him for health and strength, 
Thank Him for clothes and food, 

Thank Him for light and the fresh air, 
Thank Him for every good. 

Thank Him for pleasant days, 
For sunshine and for showers, 

For the green grass and lofty trees, 
And for the fair wild flowers. 

Thank Him, oh, most of all, 

For His most Holy Word, 
Wherein we read the wondrous love 

Of Jesus Christ our Lord. 

Thank Him that Christ has died 

That we might die to sin ; 
Thank Him that Christ is risen again, 

That we His heaven may win. 

Sing, little daughter, sing; 

Sing forth with heart and voice, 
Thanking the Lord for all His gifts ; 

Rejoice, my child, rejoice. 



202 



MY boy, do you know the boy I love ? 
I fancy I see him now ; 
His forehead bare in the sweet spring 
air, 
With the wind of hope in his waving hair, 
With sunrise on his brow. 

He is something near your height, may be, 

And just about your years ; 
Timid as you ; but his will is strong, 
And his love of right and his hate of wrong 
Are mightier than his fears. 

He has the courage of simple truth, 

The trail that he must bear ; 
The peril, the ghost that frights him most, 
He faces boldly, and like a ghost 
It vanishes in air. 

As wild-fowl take, by river and lake, 

The sunshine and the rain, 
With cheerful, constant hardihood, 
He meets the bad luck and the good, 
The pleasure and the pain. 

Come friends in need? With heart and deed 

He gives himself to them. 
He has the grace which reverence lends — 
Reverence, the crowning flower that bends, 

The upright lily-stem. 

Though deep and strong his sense of wrong, 

Fiery his blood and young, 
His spirit is gentle, his heart is great, 
He is swift to pardon and slow .to.hate, 
And master of his tongue. 

Fond of his sports ? No merrier lad's 

Sweet laughter ever rang ! 
But he is so generous and so frank, 
His wildest wit, or his maddest prank, 

Can never cause a pang. 

His own sweet ease, all things that please, 

He loves, like any boy ; 
But fosters a prudent fortitude ; 
Nor will he squander a future good 

To buy a fleeting joy. 



Face brown or fair ? I little care 

Whatever the hue may be, 
Or whether his eyes are dark or light ; 
If his tongue be true and his honor bright, 

He is still the boy for me. 

Where does he dwell? I can not tell; 

Nor do I know his name. 
Or poor or rich ? I don't mind which ; 
Or learning Latin, or digging ditch, 

I love him all the the same. 

With high, brave heart, perform your part, 

Be noble and kind as he ; 
Then, some fair morning, when you pass, 
Fresh from glad dreams, before your glass, 

His likeness you may see. 

You are puzzled? What! you think there 
is not 

A boy like him — surmise 
That he is only a bright ideal ? 
But you have power to make him real, 

And clothe him to our eyes. 

You have rightly guessed : in each pure 
breast 

Is his abiding-place. 
Then let your own true life portray 
His beauty, and blossom day by day 

With something of his grace. 

J. T. TROWBRIDGE. 



CHILDHOOD. 

C* f"N my poor mind it is most sweet to muse 
d| I Upon the days gone by; to act in thought 
yjl I Past seasons o'er, and be again a child ; 
+ To sit in fancy on the turf-clad slope 
Down which the child would roll; to pluck 

gay flowers, 
Make posies in the sun, which the child's hand 
(Childhood offended soon, soon reconciled) 
"Would throw away, and straight take up again, 
Then fling them to the winds, and o'er the lawn 
Bound with so playful and so light a foot, 
That the pressed daisy scarce declined her 
head. charles lamb. 



203 



o. 



PATCHWORK. 




sITTLE Miss Margery sits and 
sews ; 
Painfully creaking her needle 

»5FtTB3i^=ri goes, 

As the moist little fingers push it through. 
Such a long stint she has got to do ? 
"What is the good," she says with a sigh, 
" Of making more quilts to just lay by ? 

"Up in the press lies row on row; 

Who are they for? I should like to know> 

'You'll be glad some day,' says Aunt 

Pauline, 
'That you made so many.' What can she 

mean? 
Pretty white spreads, I think, look best ; 
And, anyway, little girls want some rest." 

The small brass thimble gleefully rolled 
(Margery likes to play 'tis gold). 
Scissors and spool with a clatter fell ; 
Solemn old clock, now don't you tell ! 
Over the sill see Margery lean, 
Heedless of patchwork and Aunt Pauline. 

Clover-heads with their horns of honey, 
Daisies with gold and silver money, 
Strings of strawberries yet to be, 
Yellow butterflies, gay and free, 
Sun and wind, and a chance to play, — 
All these scarcely a rod away. 

She knows she could find a four-leaved 

clover 
Before she has hunted the field half over; 
And, oh ! by the way that sparrow flew, 
She must have a nest there, certain true ! 
Only a thin white wall between !— 
When suddenly in walked Aunt Pauline. 

The high-backed chair grew straighter still, 
The clock began to tick with a will, 
Even the foolish half-moon face 
Checked itself in a broad grimace, 
While a vagrant bee who was buzzzing 

through 
Out of the window quickly flew. 



Guilty Margery, quite aghast, 
Straightens up and sews very fast, 
But all in vain, however she tries, 
To cheat for a moment those keen eyes 
Under their spectacles looking through 
Body and soul — and patchwork, too. 

"What is the matter," she asks, "to-day? 
You want to go out in the field and play? 
If I were so silly I wouldn't have told — 
A great big girl nearly twelve years old. 
Let me see your work. Well, I do declare, 
'T would disgrace a baby, Margery Ware ! 

"It must all come out. Here, take this pin; 
Sit beside me, while you begin. 
Remember you must not leave your seat 
Until it is done all true and neat. 
You'll be thankful yet that you learned 

to sew," 
With a glance at Margery's face of woe. 

<' When I was a girl," says Aunt Pauline, 
"An idle minute was seldom seen; 
You've no idea of the pains we'd take, 
Our beautiful patchwork squares to make. 
For prints were precious and thread was 

high, 
And little enough could our parents buy. 

" You could sew if you only tried; 
AVhat in the world do you see outside ? 
Grass wants cutting ; the corn looks dry ; 
Signs of rain, I think, in the sky. 
Carefully, child, don't hurry so, 
Set your stitches exact and slow." 

Margery swings her restless feet, 
Clover blossoms do smell so sweet; 
Smooth little finger-tips grow rough, 
Won't she ever have done enough ? 
Well, she must bear it while she's small ; 
Grown-up folks needn't sew at all. 

LUCY D. WIGGIN. 



204 





fl ^LBA FOR THE Boy. 



him i 



in 



HE boy is an 
offence in him- 
self. He must 
have something 
to do, and as his 
hands are idle, the pro- 
verbial provider of 
occupation for idle 
hands is always ready 
with instructions for 
him. A boy makes noise 
in utter defiance of the 
laws of acoustics. Shoe 
velvet, and carpet your house as 



you will, your boy shall make such hub- 
bub with his heels as no watchman's rat- 
tle ever gave forth. Doors in his hands 
always shut with a violence which jars 
the whole house, and he is certain to ac- 
quire each day the art of screaming or 
whistling in some wholly new and excru- 
ciating way. Loving his mother so vio- 
lently that his caresses derange her attire 
and seriously endanger her bones, ready 
to die in her defence if need be, he never- 
theless torments her from morning to 
night, and allows her no possible peace 
until slumber closes his throat and eye- 



205 



A PLEA FOR THE BOY. 



lids, and deprives his hands and feet of In most of our dealings with him in cities 



their demoniac cunning. 

In public your boy is equally a nui- 
sance. Collectively or individually he 
offends the public in the streets. What- 
ever he does is sure to be wrong. He 
monopolizes space and takes to himself 
all the air there is for acoustical purposes. 
Your personal peculiarities interest him, 
and with all the frankness of his soul he 
comments upon your appearance, address- 
ing his remarks to his fellow on the next 
block. 

Nevertheless the boy has his uses. He 
is the material out of which men are to 
be made for the next generation. He is 
not a bad fellow, — that is to say, he is not 
intentionally or consciously bad. There 
are springs in his limbs which keep him 
in perpetual motion, and the devil of up- 
roar of which he is possessed utters the 
ear-piercing sounds which annoy his eld- 
ers, but the utterances of which he can 
no more restrain than he can keep his 
boots or trousers from wearing out. In a 
ten-acre lot, well away from the house, 
the boy is a picturesque and agreeable 
person ; it is only when one must come 
into closer contact with him that his pres- 
ence causes suffering and suggests a statue 
to King Herod. It is in cities that the 
boy makes himself felt most disagreeably, 
and we fancy that the fault is not alto- 
gether his. As the steam which bursts 
boilers would be a perfectly harmless 
vapor, but for the sharp restraint that is 
put upon it, so the effervescent boy be- 
comes dangerous to social order only 
when he is confined, when an effort is 
made to compress him into smaller space 
than the law of his expansive being ab- 
solutely requires. We send him upon 
the war-path by encroaching upon his 
hunting-grounds ; we drive him into hos- 
tility by treating him as a public enemy. 



our effort is to suppress him, and it is an 
unwise system. If his ball-playing in the 
streets becomes an annoyance, we simply 
forbid ball-playing in the streets, and it 
is an inevitable consequence that, deprived 
of his ball, he will throw stones at street 
lamps or at policemen. What else is he 
to do ? 

In Brooklyn, for example, whose streets 
are long and wide, there was thought to 
be room enough for boys, and the inspir- 
ing rumble of the velocipede was heard 
there until somebody objected, when 
straightway the policemen were directed 
to arrest all machines of that character, 
whether with two, three, or four wheels, 
found upon sidewalks. Now this order 
we hold was not only cruel, but it was 
unwise as well. Without a doubt the 
velocipedes were a source of serious 
annoyance in crowded thoroughfares, but 
they are not so in streets in which pedes- 
trians are few, as they are in fully one- 
half of Brooklyn's thoroughfares. Velo- 
cipede riding might have been forbidden 
in the main thoroughfares, and permitted 
in less frequented ones, and the boy 
would have been content ; to forbid it 
where it offends nobody — merely for the 
sake of preventing it where it does offend 
— is illogical and unjust, and, worse still, 
it is unwise. The boy cannot be banished 
or confined, and, lacking his velocipede, 
he will resort to something more annoy- 
ing still. What it will be we do not 
pretend to guess, but for its capacity t<J 
annoy we may safely trust to the boy's 
ingenuity. 

Speaking in all seriousness, it is not 
well to suppress the sports of boys from 
which they derive strength and health 
and manly vigor of body. We may and 
must regulate these things ; but mere 
suppression is a crude and tyrannical 



206 




THE THREE ULSTER BOYS. 



A PLEA FOR THE BOY. 



method of dealing with them. In Boston, 
a city of notions, whose notions are some- 
times surprisingly wise and good, care is 
taken to give the boy room. A sport 
which becomes annoying is not suppressed, 
but is given ample room in places where 
it will annoy least ; and when, for exam- 
ple, certain streets are publicly set apart 
for coasting, as they are in Boston every 
winter, the police have no difficulty in 
preventing coasting elsewhere. The boy 
who may ride his sled or velocipede to his 
heart's content in one street, will not care 
to intrude upon another. We need to 
adopt a like system in our larger cities. 
The boys must have room in Avhich to 
exercise and grow. If we do not give it 
to them in one place they will take it in 
another, to our sore inconvenience. 



N. Y. EVENING POST. 



THE LESSON. 

[A beautiful answer was given by a little Scotch girl; 
when her class at school was examined, she replied to 
the question, "What is patience?" — "Wait a wee, and 
dinna weary."] 

H^ VILLAGE school-room — this the 

LA scene — 

-*- -^ Aglow with a slant sun cheery : 
A dominie there, of youthful mien, 
With the sun of his spirit sharp and keen, 
And a class of girls in serried row, 
Some taller, and some of stature low : 
And some like the morning sun, afire 
To reach the summit of brave desire ; 
And, as aye, some unco' dreary ! 

" I canna an' winna teach, and ye 

Sae stupid the while I query — 
Nae vision for ocht but vanity ! " 
With thundering rap the dominie 
Out-blurted, chafed by a listless girl, 
Whose only care seemed to smooth and 

twirl 
Her apron streamers. " Will onie lass 
Mak' answer in a' this glaikit class ? " 
The dominie sighed aweary. 



" Oh, ay," said a little one, " I can tell." 

" Weel, out wi't, then, my dearie " — 
And the frown from the master's forehead 

fell, 
For the sweetest girl in school was Nell — 
" I wan't ye to show me the meaning plain 
0' patience ; sin' ow'r and ow'r again 
I've put it this day ! " Then the little maid. 
With a roguish twinkle, soberly said, 
" Wait a wee' and dinna weary," 

MARY B . DODGE. 







] OWN the dimpled green-sward 
dancing, 
Bursts a flaxen-headed bevy 
Bud-liptboys and girls advancing, 
Love's irregular little levy- 
Bows of liquid eyes in laughter, 

How they glimmer how they quiver ! 
Sparkling one another after, 

Like bright ripples on a river. 
Tipsy band of rubious faces, 

Flushed with Joy's ethereal spirit. 
Make your mocks and sly grimaces 
At Love's self, and do not fear it. 

GEORGE DAR LEY. 



rp] 



EDUCATION. 

rT ^IS granted, and no plainer truth 

appears, 

Our most important are our earliest 

years ; 

The mind, impressible and soft, with ease 

Imbibes and copies what she hears and 

sees, 
And through life's labyrinth holds fast 

the clue 
That education gives her, false or true. 

SEASON divine, the first-born of the year- 
Past is thy father, Winter, to his rest ; 
Besplendent thou, in Nature's beauteous year, 
Inheritest the land thou makest blest. 
Now let sweet song the blissful tidings sing- 
God once more smileth on the new-born Spring. 

FK. AUGS. LEWIS. 



208 




HE sang so wildly, did the boy, 
That you could never tell 
If 't was a madman's voice you heard, 
Or if the spirit of a bird 
Within his heart did dwell — 
A bird that dallies with his voice 
Among the matted branches ; 
Or on the free blue air his note, 
To pierce, and fall, and rise, and float, 
With bolder utterance launches. 
None ever was so sweet as he, 
The boy that wildly sang to me ; 
Though toilsome was the way and long, 
He led me, not to lose the song. 

But when again we stood below 

The unhidden sky, his feet 

Grew slacker, and his note more slow, 

But more than doubly sweet. 

He led me then a little way 

Athwart the barren moor, 

And there he stayed, and bade me stay, 

Beside a cottage door ; 

I could have stayed of my own will, 

In truth, my eye and heart to fill 

With the sweet sight which I saw there, 

At the dwelling of the cottager. 

A little in the doorway sitting, 
The mother plied her busy knitting ; 
And her cheek so softly smiled, 
You might be sure, although her gaze 
Was on the meshes of the lace, 
Yet her thoughts were with her child. 

But when the boy had heard her voice, 
As o'er her work she did rejoice, 



His became silent altogether ; 
And slyly creeping by the wall, 
He seized a single plume, let fall 
By some wild bird of longest feather ; 
And all a-tremble with his freak, 
He touched her lightly on the cheek. 

Oh what a loveliness her eyes 
Gather in that one moment's space, 
While peeping round the post she spies 
Her darling's laughing face ! 
Oh mother's love is glorifying, 
On^the cheek like sunset lying ; 
In the eyes a moistened light, 
Softer than the moon at night ! 

THOMAS BURBIDGE. 

to "- « * *-T— ° 



^FOR+CHliRLIE'S+SME*- 



THE night is late, the house is still ; 
The angels of the hour fulfil 
Their tender ministries, and move 
From couch to couch, in cares of love. 
They drop into thy dreams, sweet wife, 
The happiest smile of Charlie's life, 
And lay on baby's lips a kiss, 
Fresh from his angel-brother's bliss; 
And, as they pass, they seem to make 
A strange, dim hymn, "For Charlie's 
sake." 

My listening heart takes up the strain, 
And gives it to the night again, 
Fitted with words of lowly praise, 
And patience learned of mournful days, 
And memories of the dead child's ways. 
209 14 



FOR CHARLIES SAKE. 



His will be done, His will be done ! 
Who gave and took away my son, 
In "the far land "to shine and sing 
Before the Beautiful, the King, 
Who every day doth Christmas make, 
All starred and belled for Charlie's sake. 

For Charlie's sake I will arise ; 
I will anoint me where he lies, 
And change my raiment, and go in 
To the Lord's house, and leave my sin 
Without, and seat me at his board, 
Eat, and be glad, and praise the Lord. 
For wherefore should I fast and weep, 
And sullen moods of mourning keep? 
I cannot bring him back, nor he, 
For any calling come to me. 
The bond the angel Death did sign, 
God sealed — for Charlie's sake, and mine. 

I'm very poor — this slender stone 

Marks all the narrow field I own; 

Yet, patient husbandman, I till 

With faith and prayers, that precious hill, 

Sow it with penitential pains, 

And, hopeful, wait the latter rains ; 

Content if, after all, the spot 

Yield barely one forget-me-not — 

Whether or figs or thistles make 

My crop, content for Charlie's sake. 

I have no houses, builded well — 

Only that little lonesome cell, 

Where never romping playmates come, 

Nor bashful sweethearts, cunning-dumb — 

An April burst of girls and boys, 

Their rainbowed cloud of glooms and joys 

Born with their songs, gone with their toys; 

Nor ever is its stillness stirred 

By purr of cat, or chirp of bird, 

Or mother's twilight legend, told 

Of Horner's pie, or Tiddlar's gold, 

Or fairy hobbling to the door, 

Red-clothed and weird, banned and poor, 



To bless the good child's gracious eyes, 
The good child's wistful charities, 
And crippled changeling's hunch to make 
Dance on his crutch, for good child's sake. 

How is it with the child ? 'Tis well ; 

Nor would I any miracle 

Might stir my sleeper's tranquil trance, 

Or plague his painless countenance : 

I would not any seer might place 

His staff on my immortal's face, 

Or lip to lip, and eye to eye, 

Charm back his pale mortality. 

No, Shunammite ! I would not break 

God's stillness. Let them weep who wake. 

For Charlie's sake my lot is blest : 
No comfort like his mother's breast, 
No praise like her's ; no charm expressed 
In fairest forms hath half her zest. 
For Charlie's sake this bird's caressed, 
That death left lonely in the nest ; 
For Charlie's sake my heart is dressed, 
As for its birthday, in its best ; 
For Charlie's sake we leave the rest 
To Him who gave, and who did take, 
And saved us twice, for Charlie's sake. 

JOHN WILLIAMSON PALMER.. 



H^i^H 



The Reconciliation. 



AS through the land at eve we went, 
And plucked the ripened ears, 
We fell out, my wife and I, — 
Oh, we fell out, I know not why, 
And kissed again with tears. 

For when we came where lies the child 

We lost in other years, 
There above the little grave, 
Oh, there above the little grave, 

We kissed again with tears. 



ALFRED TENNYSON. 



210 



^THElDEHFlCHILD^ 



f HE is my only girl : 

I ask'd for her as some most precious 
thing, 
For all unfinish'd was love's jewel'd ring 

Till set with this soft pearl : 
The shade that time brought forth I could not 

see; 
How pure, how perfect, seem'd the gift to me ! 

Oh, many a soft, old tune 
I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear, 
And suffer'd not the lightest footstep near 

Lest she might wake too soon, 
And hush'd her brothers' laughter while she 

lay— 
Ah, needless care! I might have let them 
play! 

'Twas long ere I believed 
That this one daughter might not speak to 

me: 
Waited and watch'd. God knows how 
patiently ! 
How willingly deceived ! 
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of 

Faith, 
And tended Hope until it starved to death. 

Oh if she could but hear 
For one short hour, till I her tongue might 

teach 
To call me mother, in the broken speech 

That thrills the mother's ear ! 
Alas ! those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd 
To the deep music of that lovely word. 

My heart it sorely tries 
To see her kneel, with such a reverent air, 
Beside her brothers, at their evening prayer . 

Or lift those earnest eyes 
To watch our lips, as though our words she 

knew, — 
Then move her own, as she were speaking too; 

I've watch'd her looking up 
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky, 
With such a depth of meaning in her eye, 

That I could almost hope 
The struggling soul would burst its binding 

cords, 
And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in 
words. 

The song of bird and bee, 
The chorus of the breezes, streams and groves, 
All the grand music to which Nature moves, 



Are wasted melody 
To her ; the world of sound a nameless void, 
While even Silence hath its charms destroy'd. 

Her face is very fair : 
Her blue eyes beautiful : of finest mould 
The soft, white brow, o'er which in waves of 
gold 

Ripples her shining hair. 
Alas ! this lovely temple closed must be ; 
For He who made it keeps the master-key. 

Wills He the mind within 
Should from earth's Babel-clamor be kept free, 
E'en that His still small voice and step 
might be 
Heard at its inner shrine, 
Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer 

thrill? 
Then should I grieve? Oh murmuring heart 
be still ! 

She seems to have a sense 
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play. 
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way, 

Whose voiceless eloquence 
Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear 
That even her father would not care for her. 

Thank God it is not so ! 
And when his sons are playing merrily, 
She comes and leans her head upon his knee, 

Oh, at such times I know, 
By his full eye and tones subdued and mild, 
How his heart yearns over his silent child. 

Not of all gifts bereft, 
Even now. How could I say she did not 

speak ? 
What real language lights her eye and cheek, 

And renders thanks to Him who left 
Unto her soul yet open avenues 
For joy to enter, and for love to use ! 

And God in love doth give 
To her defect a beauty of its own : 
And we a deeper tenderness have known. 

Through that for which we grieve. 
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear, 
Yes, and my voice shall fill it — but not here 

When that new sense is given, 
What rapture will its first experience be, 
That never woke to meaner melody 

Than the rich songs of Heaven — 
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round, 
While angels teach the ecstacies of sound ! 



211 



THE ORIGIN OF DIMPLES. 



fngin 



U jlimjiless. 



<|j|fJ§||fY mischief-loving maiden Bell ! 
t||||l|| Sit here and and listen while I tell — 
n™*™ A w hile your saucy tongue to tame — 
A pretty tale without a name, 
Save this, of "How the Dimples Came." 

A merry girl, the story goes, 

With eyes of violet, cheeks of rose, 

One day, with feet that noiseless stepp'd 

Behind her lover, tiptoe crept ; 

And peep'd with many a bow and bend, 

While he, all unsuspecting, penn'd 

A timorous sonnet to the maid, 

Which doubted, hoped, despaired and prayed. 

She peep'd and read, too pleased by half, 

And smiled, and smiled, but durst not laugh ; 

And so a strange event occurred ; 

It happen'd thus as I have heard ; 

The dainty mouth, too small, I doubt, 

To let so much of smiling out, 

Became a prison most secure, 

And held the loving legions sure. 

Wearied, at length, of durance vile, 

Impatient grew each captive smile ; 

Still, fain some outlet new to seek, 

They wreathed and coil'd in either cheek, 

Still at the ruby portals fast, 

Vainly sought exit, and at last 

Grown desperate, so the story closes, 

Cleft a new passage through the roses ! 

Love's kiss half heal'd the tender harm, 
And gave the wound its dearest charm ; 
Since not unthankful, Beauty keeps 
Her cheek less sacred than her lips, 
And while they smile their prudent " No," 
So fair the deepening dimples show, 
That Love, reminded of his claim, 
May take the guerdon without blame ; 
And this is how the dimples came. 



(3 



RANDFATHERS' 



B 



ARN. 



don't you remember our grandfather's 
barn, 
Where our cousins and we met to play : 
How we climbed on the beams and the scaf- 
folds high, 



Or tumbled at will on the hay ? 
How we sat in a row on the bundles of straw, 

And riddles and witch stories told, 
While the sunshine came in through the cracks 
of the south, 

And turned all the dust into gold ? 

How we played hide-and-seek in each cranny 
and nook, 

Wherever a child could be stowed ; 
Then we made us a coach of a hogshead of rye, 

And on it to " Boston " we rode ? 
And then we kept store, and sold barley and 
oats, 

And corn by the bushel or bin ; 
And straw for our sisters to braid into hats, 
• And flax, for our mothers to spin. 

Then we played we were biddies, and cackled 
and crowed, 
Till grandmother in haste came to see 
If the weasles were killing the old speckled hen, 

Or whatever the matter might be ; 
How she patted our heads when she saw her 
mistake, 
And called us her sweet " chicken-dears ! " 
While a tear dimmed her eye as the picture 
recalled 
The scenes of her own vanished years. 

How we tittered and swung, and played meet- 
ing and school, 
And Indian, and soldier, and bear ! 
While up on the rafters the swallows kept 
house, 
Or sailed through the soft summer air. 
How we longed to peep into their curious 
nests ! 
But they were too far overhead ; 
So we wished we were giants, or winged like 
the birds, 
And then we'd do wonders, we said. 

And don't you remember the racket we made 

When selling at auction the hay ; 
And how we wound up with a keel-over leap 

From the scaffold down into the bay ? 
When we went in to supper, our grandfather 
said, 

If he had not once been a boy, 
He should thought that the Hessians were 
sacking the town, 

Or an earthquake had come to destroy. 



212 



YOUE arms are folded tight about your 
little boy, 
His golden head leans close upon your 
breast, 
A smile is on the lips that softly sing 
Your baby to his rest. 

Thy arms are empty quite, one lonely hand 
Clasps tightly round its dreary, dreary mate, 

My bosom heaves at no soft baby touch ; 
It only throbs against a bitter fate. 

Yet, as you dream and brood o'er future goods, 
O'er honors bright and golden joys, 

My heart goes planning on in self same mood 
The glowing future of my boys. 

For in my mother's heart they live alway. 

Daily I hear the patter of their feet, 
Daily I hear them laugh and shout at play, 

Nightly I hear them a sweet name repeat 



That no red lips have spoken to me 
Outside this heart-world of my own. 

"Mamma" the babies lisp, and then 
Mother" 
Comes proudly from the larger grown. 



"My 



I softly smile when mothers proud about me 
Toss forward glowing visions of my very 
boys — 



Gold-haired, dark-eyed, red-cheeked, gay 
darlings — 
I smile and inwardly rejoice. 

" My boys," I calmly say, " will never know 
the sorrow, 

Will never fight the fight as yours must do ; 
Will never strive, despair in that vain conflict 

That we who live on earth pass through. 

" The children of our dreams are ever as we 
wish them, 

Forever happy, safe from sins and harms. 
Them only can we shield and keep forever, 

Held safely in our tender mother-arms." 

These are my daily thoughts; but now 'tis 
even-time. 
And one great tear drops slowly in the night; 
For lonely are these hands, this throbbing 
breast. 
My mother-arms, alas ! are empty quite. 

W . M . MASON. 

^OU shall never light upon an ill- 
natured man who was not an ill- 
natured child, and gave several testimonies, 
of his being so, to discerning persons, long 
before the use of his reason. 

DR. SOUTH. 



Whom the Gods Jjove pie young. 




" T I J HOM the gods love die young," was said of yore, 

And many deaths do they escape by this ; 
The death of friends and that which slays even more, 

The death of Friendship, Love, Youth, all that is 
Except mere breath ; and since the silent shore 

Awaits at last even those who longest miss 
The old Archer's arrow, perhaps the early grave 

Which men weep over may be meant to save. 




LORD BYRON. 



213 



A PORTRAIT 



" ^ip " 



I 



" One name is Elizabeth."— Ben Johnson. 



WILL paint her as I see her, 
Ten times have the lilies blown 
Since she looked upon the sun. 



And her face is lily-clear, 
Lily-shaped, and dropped in duty 
To the law of its own beauty. 

Oval cheeks encolored faintly, 
Which a trail of golden hair 
Keeps from fading off to air ; 

And a forehead fair and saintly, 
Which two blue eyes undershine, 
Like meek prayers before a shrine. 

Face and figure of a child, — 

Though too calm, you think, and tender, 
For the childhood you would lend her. 

Yet child-simple, undefiled, 
Frank, obedient, — waiting still 
On the turnings of your will. 

Moving light, as all your things, 
As young birds, or early wheat, 
When the wind blows over it. 

Only, free from fiutterings 

Of loud mirth that scorneth measure, — 
Taking love for her chief pleasure. 

Choosing pleasures, for the rest, 
Which come softly, — just as she, 
When she nestles at your knee. 

Quiet talk she liketh best, 
In a bower of gentle looks, — 
Watering flowers, or reading books. 

And her voice, it murmurs lowly, 
As a silver stream may run, 
Which yet feels, you feel, the sun. 

And her smile, it seems half holy, 
As if drawn from thoughts more far 
Than our common jestings are. 



And if any poet knew her, 

He would sing of her with falls 
Used in lovely madrigals. 

And if any painter drew her. 
He would paint her unaware 
AVith a halo round the hair. 

And if reader read the poem, 

He would whisper, " You have done a 
Consecrated little Una." 

And a dreamer (did you show him 
That same picture) would exclaim, 
" 'T is my angel, with a name ! " 

And a stranger, when he sees her 
In the street even, smileth stilly, 
Just as you would at a lily. 

And all voices that address her 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes, 
With the thymy-scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, " God love her ! " — 
Ay, and always, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure He doth. 

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



WHEN the child is christened, you 
may have godfathers enough. 
When a man's need is supplied, or his 
necessities over, people are ready to offer 
their services. 

SPANISH PROVERB. 



FOR if youth be grafted straight and 
not awry, the whole commonwealth will 
flourish thereafter. 



ROGER ASCHAM. 



214 




A SON'S KISS IN THE SUNSHINE. 

TWO little arms around a neck so white ; 
Two little ruby lips that warmly kiss ; 
Two pale pink lips that, wilfully remiss, 
Strive to escape them, dodging left and right; 
Two eyes of azure, dancing with delight, 
Bright as the sunshine, swimming o'er with 

bliss, 
Gazing into the fathomless abyss 
Of hazel eyes with soul sun-radiance bright ; 
A little nez retrousse, though but slight 

Is its divergence from true symmetry ; 
Two tiny ears ; clusters of curls that fight 

Like warring waves ; two rosy cheeks ; a wee 
White dimpled chin ; the whole as fair a sight 
As ever mortal might expect to see ! 

So thinks the grey, grave man, who stoops 

To fasten in his daughter's hair 
The rose he holds — the rose that droops 

In the warm summer air, 

And faintly breathes a perfumed prayer — 
That round the honey-sweetness at her breast 

Folds her pale petals — nestles softly there, 
And sinks to rest ! 
So in the stillness of the night, 

With folded hands, and downbent head, 
The mother in her robe of white, 

Kneeling beside her bed, 

Utters the prayer so often said — 
Then folds her sweet son fondly to her breast 

Pillowing gently there his curly head, 
And sinks to rest ! 



J *-Gt& iiL^ 1 *" 



215 




jHE voice of nature cries aloud 
in behalf of Augustus George, 
my infant son. It is for him 
that I wish to utter a few 
plaintive household words. I am not at 
all angry; I am mild — but miserable. 

I wish to know why when my child, 
Augustus George, was expected in our 
circle, a provision of pins was made, as if 
the little stranger was a criminal who was 
to be put to the torture immediately on 
his arrival, instead of a holy babe? I 
wish to know why haste was made to 
stick those pins all over his innocent form, 
in every direction ? I wish to know why 
light and air are excluded, from Augustus 
George, like poison ? Why, I ask, is my 
unoffending infant so hedged into a basket 
bedstead, with dimity and calico, with 
miniature sheets and blankets, that I can 
only hear him snuffle (and no wonder) 
deep down under the pink hood of a little 
bathing-machine, and can never peruse 
even so much of his lineaments as his 
nose. Was I expected to be the father 
of a French roll, that the brushes of all 
nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus 
George ? Am I to be told that this sen- 
sitive skin was ever intended by nature to 
have rashes brought out upon it, by the 
premature and incessant use of those for- 
midable little instruments ? 

Is my son a nutmeg, that he is to be 
grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills ? 
Am I the parent of a muslin boy, that his 
yielding surface is to be crimped and 
small-plaited ? Or is my child composed 
of paper or of linen, that impressions of 
the finer getting-up art, practised by the 
laundress, are to be printed off all over 
his soft arms and legs, as I constantly 
observe them ? The starch enters his 



soul; who can wonder that he cries? 
Was Augustus George intended to have 
limbs, or to be born a torso ? I presume 
that limbs were the intention, as they are 
the usual practice. Then, why are my 
poor child's limbs fettered and tied up ? 
Am I to be told that there is any analogy 
between Augustus George Meek and 
Jack Shepherd ? Analyze castor oil at 
any institution of chemistry that may be 
agreed upon, and inform me what resem- 
blance in taste it bears to that natural 
provision which it is at once the pride and 
duty of Maria Jane to administer to 
Augustus George ? Yet I charge Mrs. 
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) 
with systematically forcing castor oil on 
my innocent son, from the first hour of 
his birth. When that medicine, in its 
efficient action, causes internal disturb- 
ance to Augustus George, I charge Mrs. 
Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) 
with insanely and inconsistently adminis- 
tering opium to allay the storm she has 
raised ! What is the meaning of this ? 

If the days of Egyptian mummies are 
past, how dare Mrs. Prodgit require for 
the use of my son an amount of flannel 
and linen that would carpet my humble 
roof? Do I wonder that she requires it? 
No ! This morning, within an hour, I 
beheld this agonizing sight. I beheld my 
son — Augustus George — in Mrs. Prodgit's 
hands, and on Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being 
dressed. He was at the moment, com- 
paratively speaking, in a state of nature, 
having nothing on but an extremely short 
shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the 
length of his usual outer garments. 
Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap, on the 
floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage 
— I should say of several yards in extent. 



216 



MR. MEEK'S BABY. 



In this I saw Mrs. Proclgit tightly roll 
the body of my unoffending infant, turn- 
ing him over and over, now presenting 
his unconscious face upwards, now the 
back of his bald head, until the unnatural 
feat was accomplished, and the bandage 
secured by a pin, which I have every 
reason to believe entered the body of my 
only child. In this tourniquet he passes 
the present phase of his existence. Can 
I know it and smile ? 

I fear I have been betrayed into ex- 
pressing myself warmly, but I feel deeply. 
Xot for myself; for Augustus George. I 
dare not interfere. "Will any one ? Will 
any publication? Any doctor? Any 
parent? Anybody? I do not complain 
that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by 
Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria 
Jane's affections from me, and interposes 
an impassable barrier between us. I do 
not complain of being made of no account. 
I do not want to be of any account. But 
Augustus George is a production of 
nature (I cannot think otherwise), and I 
claim that he should be treated with some 
remote reference to nature. In my opinion 
Mrs. Prodgit is from first to last a con- 
vention and a superstition. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



purpose than merely to keep up the race ; 
to enlarge the hearts, to make us unselfish, 
and full of kindly sympathies and affec- 
tions ; to give our souls higher aims, and 
to call out all our faculties, to extend en- 
terprise and exertion ; to bring round our 
fireside bright faces and happy smiles, and 
loving, tender hearts. My soul blesses 
the Great Father every day, that he has 
gladdened the earth with little children. 

MARY HOWITT. 

MOTHER AND CHILD. 

|HE tie which links mother and 
[§> child is of such pure and im- 
maculate strength as to be 
never violated except by those 
whose feelings are withered by the refin- 
ing of vitiated society. Holy, simple and 
beautiful in its construction, the emblem 
of all we can imagine of fidelity and truth, 
is the blessed tie whose value we feel in 
the cradle, and whose loss we lament on 
the verge of the very grave, where our 
mother moulders in dust and ashes. In 
all our trials, amid all our afflictions, she 
is our friend ; let the world forsake us, 
she is still by our side ; if we sin, she re- 
proves more in sorrow than in anger, nor 
can she tear us from her bosom, nor for- 
get we are her child. 




Wk$ l|iglttr purpose nfl AUtlret!. 

'ELL me not of the trim, precisely 
arranged homes where there are no 
children ; " where," as the good 
Germans have it, "the flytraps always 
hang straight on the wall" ; tell me not 
of the never-disturbed nights and days, 
of the tranquil, unanxious hearts, where 
children are not ! I care not for these 
things. God sends children for another 



THE INFANT, 

^(PATUPE'S best picture newly drawn, 
~" ' which time and much handling dims 
and defaces. Whose soul's white paper 
is yet unscribbled with observations of the 
world, wherewith at length it becomes a 
blurred note-book. AYho yet knows no 
evil, nor hath made means by sin to be 
acquainted with misery. All the language 
he speaks is tears, aud they serve well to 
express his necessity. 



POOLE'S PARNASSUS, 



217 



The B&bjfs Fii$ Tooth, 



mBk 



* oooooooooooooooooooco-oooooooooo 




j 



;R. and Mrs. 

Jones had just 
finished their 
breakfast. Mr. 
Jones had 
pushed back 
||| his chair, and 
was looking under the lounge for 
his boots. Mrs. Jones sat at the 
table, holding the infant Jones, and 
mechanically working her forefinger in 
its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the 
motion, threw the astonished child on its 
back, turned as white as a sheet, pried 
open its mouth, and immediately gasped 
" Ephraim !" Mr. Jones, who was yet on 
his knees with his head under the lounge, 
at once came forth, rapping his head 
sharply on the side of the lounge as he 
did so, and getting on his feet, inquired 
what was the matter. " Oh Ephraim," 
said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks 
and the smiles coursing up. " Why, what 
is it, Aramathea?" said the astonished 
Mr. Jones, smartly rubbing his head 
where it had come in contact with the 
lounge. " Baby !" she gasped. Mr. Jones 
turned pale and commenced to sweat. 
"Baby! O— O— O Ephraim! Baby 
has — baby has got — a little toOthey, oh ! 
oh ! " " No \" screamed Mr. Jones, spread- 
ing his legs apart, dropping his chin, and 
staring at the struggling heir with all his 
might. " I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. 
Jones, with a slight evidence of hysteria. 
" Oh, it can't be ! " protested Mr. Jones, 
preparing to swear if it wasn't. " Come 
here and see for yourself," said Mrs. 
Jones. " Open its 'ittle mousy- wousy for 
its own muzzer; that's a toody- woody; 



that's a blessed 'ittle 'ump of sugar." 
Thus conjured, the heir opened its mouth 
sufficiently for the father to thrust in his 
finger, and that gentleman having con- 
vinced himself by the most unmistakable 
evidence that a tooth was there, immedi- 
ately kicked his hat across the room, 
buried his fist in the lounge, and declared 
with much feeling that he could lick the 
individual who would dare to intimate 
that he was not the happiest man on the 
face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. 
Jones a hearty smack on the mouth and 
snatched up the heir, while that lady 
rushed tremblingly forth after Mrs. Sim- 
mons, who lived next door. In a momeut 
Mrs. Simmons came tearing in as if she 
had been shot out of a gun, and right 
behind her came Miss Simmons at a speed 
that indicated that she had been ejected 
from two guns. Mrs. Simmons at once 
snatched the heir from the arms of Mr. 
Jones and hurried to the window, where 
she made a careful and critical examina- 
tion of its mouth, while Mrs. Jones held 
its head, and Mr. Jones danced up and 
down the room, and snapped his fingers 
to show how calm he was. It having 
been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that 
the tooth was a sound one, aud also that 
the strongest hopes for its future could be 
entertained on account of its coming in 
the new of the moon, Mrs. Jones got out 
the necessary material, and Mr. Jones at 
once proceeded to write seven different 
letters to as many persons, unfolding to 
them the event of the morning, and in- 
viting them to come on as soon as pos- 
sible. 



M. BAILEY. 



218 



gooKS and Reading. 




REALLY am in doubt 
whether or not the young 
folks ought to be congrat- 
ulated in consequence of 
the great number of juve- 
nile books which are be- 
ing placed before them 
about this time. An ex- 
cellent book is certainly- 
excellent company; but 
there is a limit to all things ; and so we 
may have too many books, taking it for 
granted that all are good ones. 

You all know, that, as a general rule, 
people in America read too much, and 
think too little. Reading is a benefit to 
us only when it leads to reflection. It is 
useless when it leaves no lasting impres- 
sion on the mind ; it is worse than useless 
if the lesson it conveys be not a really 
good one. 

Suppose you sit down to a well-furnished 
table at a hotel to eat your dinner. The 
waiter hands you a bill of fare, upon 
which is printed a long list of good and 
wholesome dishes, and then quietly waits 
until you order what you wish. You are 
not expected to eat of every one, however 
attractive they may be, but rather to select 
what you like best, — enough to make a 
modest meal, — and let that suffice. 

But the selection is not all. If you 
expect to gain health and strength by your 
dinner, you must eat it in a proper man- 
ner ; that is, slowly. Other-wise nature's 
work will be imperfectly done, and your 
food become a source of bodily harm, in- 
stead of a benefit. 

Now, it is precisely so with the food of 
the mind, which comes to you through 



books. You are not expected to read 
everything which comes within your reach. 
You should rather select the best, and, 
having done so, read them slowly and care- 
fully. You may read too much as well as 
eat too much ; and while the one will in- 
jure your body, the other will as certainly 
harm your mind. 

One of the worst evils which too much 
reading leads to is a habit of reading to 
forget. You know what a bad habit is, 
how it clings to us, when once contracted, 
and how hard it is to be shaken off. Some 
boys and girls read a book entirely through 
in a single evening, and the next day are 
eagerly at work on another, to be as quick- 
ly mastered. No mind, however strong, 
can stand such a strain. You see at once 
that it would be absolutely impossible for 
them to remember what they read. And 
so they read for a momentary enjoyment, 
and gradually fall into the habit I have 
spoken of — reading to forget. I need not 
tell you that such a habit is fatal to any 
very high position in life. 

How often we hear parents boast that 
their children are " great readers," just as 
if their intelligence should, in their opin- 
ion, be measured by the number of books 
and papers which they had read ! Need 
I say, that, on the contrary, they are ob- 
jects of pity ? 

But how much may we read with profit ? 
That is a question not always easy to an- 
swer. Some can read a great deal more 
than others. Yet, if young people read 
slowly, and think a great deal aboujt the 
subject, there is very little danger of their 
reading too much, provided they select 
only good books ; because good books are 



219 



BOOKS AND READING. 



very scarce — much more so in proportion 
to the number printed than they were 
twenty years ago ; and there are very few 
young persons who have too great a sup- 
ply of good works placed within their 
reach. 

I have mentioned one evil which results 
from too much reading, and will only 
briefly allude to another equally import- 
ant. Children who attend school have no 
time to devote to worthless books. Their 
studies consume many hours. If, aside 
from the time which should be devoted to 
play, to their meals, and the various duties 
of home, they will read a useless book 
every day or two, their health is sure to 
suffer. The evil consequences may not be 
at once apparent, but in later years the 
penalty will certainly have to be paid. 
This reflection alone, if there were no 
other reason, should induce the young to 
discard all useless books, and read only 
such as shall have a tendency to make 
them wiser and better. 



'IhHE were crowded in the cabin, 
*°n Not a soul would dare to sleep,- 
It was midnight on the waters 
And a storm was on the deep. 

'T is a fearful thing in Winter 
To be shattered by the blast, 
And to hear the rattling trumpet 
Thunder : " Cut away the mast ! " 

So we shuddered there in silence, — 
For the stoutest held his breath, 
While the hungry sea was roaring, 
And the breakers talked with Death. 

As thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy in his prayers, 



" We are lost ! " the captain shouted 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand : 
" Is n't God upon the ocean 
Just the same as on the land ?" 

Then we kissed the little maiden, 
And we spoke in better cheer, 
And we anchored safe in harbor 
When the morn was shining clear. 

JAMES T. FIELDS. 



WE IRE SEYEN. 




SIMPLE child, 

That lightly draws its breath, 
And feels its life in every limb, 

What should it know of death ? 



I met a little cottage girl : 
She was eight years old she said, 

Her hair was thick with many a curl 
That clustered round her head. 

She had a rustic, woodland air, 

And she was wildly clad ; 
Her eyes were fair, and very fair ; — 

Her beauty made me glad. 

" Sisters and brothers, little maid, 

How many may you be ? " 
"How many? Seven in all," she said, 

And wondering looked at me. 

"And where are they? I pray you tell. 

She answered : " Seven are we; 
And two of us at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea. 

" Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

My sister and my brother ; 
And, in the churchyard cottage, I 

Dwell near them with my mother." 

" You say that two at Conway dwell, 

And two are gone to sea, 
Yet ye are seven ! I pray you tell, 

Sweet maid, how this may be." 



220 



WE ARE SEVEN. 



Then did the little maid reply : 

" Seven boys and girls are we ; 
Two of us in the churchyard lie, 

Beneath the churchyard tree." 

"You run about, my little maid ; 

Your limbs they are alive ; 
If two are in the churchyard laid, 

Then ye are only five." 

"Their graves are green, they may be seen," 

The little maid replied : 
"Twelve steps or more from rny mother's door, 

And they are side by side. 

" My stockings there I often knit, 

My kerchief there I hem ; 
And there upon the ground I sit, 

And sing a song to them. 

"And often after sunset, sir. 

"WTien it is light and fair, 
I take my little porringer, 

And eat my supper there. 

" The first that died was sister Jane ; 

In bed she moaning lay, 
Till God released her of her pain ; 

And then she went away. 

"So in the churchyard she was laid; 

And, when the grass was dry, 
Together round her grave we played, 

My brother John and I. 

" And when the ground was white with snow 

And I could run and slide, 
My brother John was forced to go, 

And he lies by her side." 

" How many are you, then," said I, 

" If they two are in heaven ?" 
Quick was the little maid's reply : 

" Master ! we are seven." 

" But they are dead ; those two are dead ! 

Their spirits are in heaven ! " 
'T was throwing words away ; for still 
The little maid would have her will, 

And said : "Nay, we are seven ! " 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



£▼ HE bounded o'er the graves, 
^\ With a buoyant step of mirth ; 
^r She bounded o'er the graves, 
Where the weeping -willow waves, 
Like a creature not of earth. 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her eyes were glittering bright , 

Her hair was blown aside, 

And her little hands spread wide, 

With an innocent delight. 

She spelt the lettered word 
That registers the dead ; 
She spelt the lettered word, 
And her busy thoughts were stirred 
With pleasure as she read. 

She stopped and culled a leaf 
Left fluttering on a rose, 
She stopped and culled a leaf, 
Sweet monument of grief, 
That in our churchyard grows. 

She culled it with a smile — 
'T was near her sister's mound : 
She culled it with a smile, 
And played with it awhile, 
Then scattered it around. 

I did not chill her heart, 
Nor turn its gush to tears ; 
I did not chill her heart, 
Oh, bitter drops will start 
Full soon in coming years. 

CAROLINE GILMAN. 



TO A CHILD. 

Written in her album. 

©MALL service is true service while it lasts : 

J© Of humblest friends, bright creature ! 

scorn not one : 
The daisy, by the shadow tha>t it casts, 
Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun. 

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 



221 



-fc-j- 



G^-. 



Ig 



-s-a- 








-C_r^aJfa-^iJ>-- 




ABIES iluv 
with all mi 
heart. They 
krawl into me 
and nestle by 
the side ov mi 
soul like a kit- 
ten under a 
cook-stove. 

I hav raized 
babies miself, 
and kno what i am talking about. 

I hav got grand-children, and they are 
wuss than the fust krop tew riot amung 
the feelings. 

If i could hav mi way, i would change 
all the human beings now on the face ov 
the earth back into babys at once, and 
keep them thare, and make this footstool 
one grand nussery ; but what i should do 
for wet-nusses i don't kno, nor don't care. 
I would like tew hav 15 babys now on 
mi lap, and mi lap ain't the handyest lap 
in the world for babys, neither. 

Mi lap iz long enuif, but not the widest 
kind ov a lap. 

I am a good deal ov a man, but i kon- 
sist ov length principally; and when i 
make a lap ov miself, it iz not a mattress, 
but more like a couple ov rails with a jint 
in them. 

I can hold more babys in mi lap at once 
than any man in Ameriki, without spilling 
one, but it hurts the babys. 

I never saw a baby in mi life that i 
didn't want tew kiss. 



I am wuss than an old maid in this re- 
spekt. 

I hav seen babys that i hav refused tew 
kiss until they had been washt ; but the 
baby want tew blame for this, neither 
waz i. 

Thare are folks in this world who say 
they don't luv babys, but yu kan depend 
upon it, when they waz babys sumboddy 
luved them. 

Babys luv me, too. I kan take them 
out ov their mothers' arms just az easy az 
i kan an unfledged bird out ov his nest. 
They luv me bckauze i luv them. 

And here let me say, for the comfort 
and consolashun ov all mothers, that when- 
ever they see me on the cars or on the 
steambote, out ov a job ; they needn't hesi- 
tate a minnit tew drop a clean, fat baby 
into mi lap. I will hold it, and kiss it, 
and be thankful besides. 

Perhaps thare iz people who don't envy 
me all this ; but it is one ov the sharp-cut, 
well-defined joys ov mi life — my luv for 
babys and their luv for me. 

Perhaps thare iz people who will call it 
a weakness. I don't kare what they call 
it — bring on the babys. Unkle Josh haz 
always a kind word and a kiss for the 
babys. 

I luv babys for the truth thare iz in 
'em. I ain't afraid their kiss will betray 
me — thare iz no frauds, ded beats, nor 
counterfits amung them. 

I wish i waz a baby, not only once 
more, but for evermore. 



222 



JOSH BILLINGS. 




Babvs Cradle Song. 





WHEN sets the sun, and day is done, 
And peaceful eve hides all our care, 
When screech-owls cry and brown bats 

fly 

Through the flow'r-fragrant evening air; 
When the purple hills grow dark 

Far over the dusky moor, 
And the noisy sheep-dogs bark 

By the vine-hung cottage door — 
Then, tenderly, oh, tenderly, 
While the faint lights fade and die, 
Mother, sitting baby nigh, 
Softly sings her lullaby. 

When black is night and stars shine bright, 

And wolves are howling round the fold, 
Where all asleep lie lambs and sheep, 

And winds are blowing chill and cold : 
When nought in the world is awake 

But the little tinkling rill, 
Babbling through bush and brake, 

Dancing down from the hill — 
Then wearily, oh, wearily, 
While the lands in slumber lie, 
Mother, sitting baby nigh, 
Watches her with sleepless eye. 



When darkness dies from all the skies, 

And streaks of amber paint the east, 
When ripples wake along the lake, 

And e'en the cricket's chirp has ceased: 
When the white moon fades from view, 

And over the hills afar, 
In the slowly brightening blue, 

Wanes the dim sweet morning star — 
Then lovingly, oh, lovingly, 
While the dawn breaks o'er the sky, 
Mother, sitting baby by, 
Rocks the cradle carefully. 

When full day breaks, and earth awakes, 

And all the birds burst into song, 
And deep and clear, past pool and mere, 

The little streamlet flows along, 
Amber, and crimson, and gold, 

Flood all the morning sky ; 
The lambs awake in the fold, 

The sparrows chirp and fly; 
While happily, oh, happily, 
As the morning wind floats by, 
Mother watches baby's eye 
Open slowly, drowsily. 



223 



V 



» 



LITTLE BELL. 



He prayeth well, 'who loveth well 
Both man and bird and beast. 

Ancient Mariner. 

:^Ji?IPED the blackbird on the beechwood 
JK? spray : 

" Pretty maid, slow wandering this way, 
What's your name ? " quoth he — 
"What's your name? Oh stop and straight 

unfold, 
Pretty maid with showery curls of gold," — 
" Little Bell," said she. 

Little Bell sat down beneath the rocks — 
Tossed aside her gleaming golden locks — 

" Bonny bird," quoth she, 
" Sing me your best song before I go." 
" Here 's the very finest song I know, 

Little Bell," said he. 

And the blackbird piped ; you never heard 
Half so gay a song from any bird — 

Full of quips and wiles, 
Now so round and rich, now soft and slow, 
All for love of that sweet face below, 

Dimpled o'er with smiles. 

And the while the bonny bird did pour 
His full heart out freely o'er and o'er 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine forth in happy overflow 

From the blue, bright eyes. 

Down the dell she tripped and through the 

glade, 
Peeped the squirrel from the hazel shade, 

And from out the tree 
Swung, and leaped, and frolicked, void of 

fear, — 
While bold blackbird piped that all might 
hear — 
" Little Bell," piped he. 

Little Bell sat down amid the fern — 

" Squirrel, squirrel, to your task return — 

Bring me nuts," quoth she. 
Up, away the frisky squirrel hies — 
Golden wood-lights glancing in his eyes — 

And adown the tree, 
Great ripe nuts, kissed brown by July sun, 



^ 



In the little lap, dropped one by one — 
Hark, how blackbird pipes to see tbe fun ! 
" Happy Bell," pipes he. 

Little Bell looked up and down the glade — 
" Squirrel, squirrel, if you 're not afraid, 

Come and share with me! " 
Down came squirrel eager for his fare — 
Down came bonny blackbird I declare ; 
Little Bell gave each his honest share — 

Ah the merry three ! 
And the while these frolic playmates twain 
Piped and frisked from bough to bough again, 

'Neath the morning skies, 
In the little childish heart below 
All the sweetness seemed to grow and grow, 
And shine out in happy overflow, 

From her blue, bright eyes. 

By her snow-white cot at close of day, 
Knelt sweet Bell, with folded palms to pray — 

Very calm and clear 
Rose the praying voice to where, unseen, 
In blue heaven, an angel shape serene 

Paused awhile to hear — 
" What good child is this," the angel said, 
" That with happy heart, beside her bed 

Prays so lovingly ? " 
Low and soft, oh ! very low and soft, 
Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, 

" Bell, dear Bell?" crooned he. 

" Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair 
Murmured, " God doth bless with angels' care ; 

Child, thy bed shall be 
Folded safe from harm — Love deep and kind, 
Shall watch around and leave good gifts be- 
hind, 

Little Bell, for thee!" 

T. WESTWOOD. 



Jjittle JJaggage. 



'AITING at a wayside station 
For a weary hour's duration, 
Lost in anxious cogitation, 
Over this and that ; 



224 



LITTLE BAGGAGE. 



In there tripped a little maiden, 
Box and bag and basket laden, 
And beside me sat. 

Little baggage ! rich in treasure ; 
Youth and hope, and heart for pleasure, 
Sweet contentment without measure, 

All I once possessed. 
Small, fair fingers, folded quaintly, 
Blue eyes very calm and saintly, 

Very full of rest. 

Little dove of peace, I thought her, 
Bless the happy stars that brought her ! 
To my care-worn heart I caught her, 

Though she never knew. 
And the dark cloud of repining 
Sudden showed its silver lining 

Bright against the blue. 

Oh, the charm of childhood's graces ! 
Changing earth 's most desert places 
Into such a fair oasis, 

Fresh with morning dew ; 
That the world, grown old and dreary, 
Seems less work-a-day and weary, 

And hope wakes anew. 

Sooner can their freshness free us 
From the cares that years decree us, 
Than the fabled child of Zeus 

Could to youth restore. 
Happy who the myth believing, 
And the nectar cup receiving, 

Lives a child once more. 

EMMA SMULLER. 



THE MITHERLESS BAIBH. 



An In verary correspondent writes : ' ' Thom gave me the 
following narrative as to the origin of 'The Mitherless 
Bairn': I quote his own words. 'When I was livin' in 
Aberdeen, I was limping roun' the house to my garret, 
when I heard the greetin' o' a wean. A lassie was 
thumpin' a bairn, when out cam a big dame, bellowin', 
"Yehussie, will ye lick a mitherless bairn ! " I hobbled 
up the stair and wrote the sang afore sleepin'." 

WHEN a' ither bairnies are hushed to their 
liame 
By aunty, or cousin, or frecky grand-dame, 
Wha stands last and lanely, an' naebody carin'? 
'T is the puir doited loonie, — the mitherless 
bairn ! 



The mitherless bairn gangs to his lane bed ; 
Nane covers his cauld back, or haps his bare 

head ; 
His wee hackit heelies are hard as the aim, 
An' litheless the lair o' the mitherless bairn. 

Aneath his cauld brow siccan dreams hover 

there, 
0' hands that wont kindly to kame his dark 

hair ; 
But mornin' brings clutches, a' reckless an' 

stern, 
That lo'e nae the locks o' the mitherless bairn! 

Yon sister that sang o'er his saftly rocked bed 
Now rests in the mools where her mammie is 

laid; 
The father toils sair their wee bannock to earn, 
An' kens na the wrangs o' his mitherless bairn. 

Her spirit, that passed in yon hour o' his birth, 
Still watches his wearisome wanderings on 

earth ; 
Recording in heaven the blessings they earn 
Wha couthilie deal wi' the mitherless bairn ! 

0, speak him na harshly, — he trembles the 

while, 
He bends to your bidding, and blesses your 

smile ; 
In their dark hour o' anguish the heartless 

shall learn 
That God deals the blow, for the mitherless 

bairn ! 

WILLIAM THOM. 



The Good- Night Kiss. 

LWAYS send your little child to bed 
happy. Whatever cares may trouble 
your mind, give the dear child a warm 
good-night kiss as it goes to its pillow. 
The memory of this, in the stormy years 
which may be in store for the little one, 
will be like Bethlehem's star to the bewil- 
dered shepherds ; and welling up in the 
heart will rise the thought : " My father, 
my mother — loved me!" Lips parched 
with fever will become dewy again at this 
thrill of useful memories. Kiss your lit- 
tle child before it goes to sleep. 



225 



15 



THE SHEPHERD BOY. 



The Shepherd Boy. 

LIKE some vision olden 
Of far other time, 
When the age was golden, 
In the young world's prime, 
Is thy soft pipe ringing, 

O lonely shepherd boy : 

What song art thou singing, 

In thy youth and joy ? 

Or art thou complaining 

Of thy lowly lot, 
And thine own disdaining, 

Dost ask what thou hast not? 
Of the future dreaming, 

Weary of the past, 
For the present scheming — 

All but what thou hast. 

No, thou art delighting 

In thy summer home ; 
Where the flowers inviting 

Tempt the bee to roam ; 
Where the cowslip, bending 

With its golden bells, 
Of each glad hour's ending 

With a sweet chime tells. 

All wild creatures love him 

AVhen he is alone; 
Every bird above him 

Sings its softest tone. 
Thankful to high Heaven, 

Humble in thy joy, 
Much to thee is given, 

Lowly shepherd boy. 

L7ETITIA ELIZABETH LANDON. 



T 



TO A CHILD. 

HY memory, as a spell 

Of love, comes o'er my mind- 
As dew upon the purple bell — 
As perfume on the wind ; — 



As music on the sea — 

As sunshine on the river ; — 

So hath it always been to me, 
So shall it be forever. 

I hear thy voice in dreams 

Upon me softly call, 
Like echoes of the mountain streams, 

In sportive waterfall. 
I see thy form as when 

Thou wert a living thing, 
And blossomed in the eyes of men, 

Like any flower of spring. 

Thy soul to heaven hath fled, 

From earthly thraldom free ; 
Yet, 't is not as the dead 

That thou appear'st to me. 
In slumber I behold 

Thy form, as when on earth, 
Thy locks of waving gold, 

Thy sapphire eye of mirth. 

I hear, in solitude, 

The prattle kind and free 
Thou utter'st in joyful mood 
While seated on my knee. 
So strong each vision seems 

My spirit that doth fill, 
I think not they are dreams, 

But that thou livest still. 



LITTLE TODDIE. 



«*- 



IS it bright with summer gladness, 
Tod die dear ; 
Is there nowhere any sadness, 

Toddie dear ; 
In that land of pleasant mountains, 
Crystal rivers, silver fountains, 
In that home to which you hastened 
From the home by sorrow chastened, 
Joyless here ? 



226 



LITTLE TODDLE. 



Do the seraph-bands surround you, 
Toddieboy? 
Do the angels gather round you, 

Toddie boy ? 
Do they keep your heart from grieving 
For the mother you are leaving, 
For the mother who is groaning 
With a broken-hearted moaning 

For her boy ? 

Yes, we know that love upholds you, 

Toddie dear ; 
That a wondrous love enfolds you, 
Toddie dear, 
With an infinite sweet pity. 
In that shining golden city 
Little ones are crowned with blessing, 
All the Saviour's care possessing, 

There as here. 

But we loved you very dearly, 

Toddie boy ; 
And we held you very nearly, 

"Toddieboy! 
Many, many tender mothers, 
Little sisters, little brothers, 
Would be sorely grieved in spirit, 
But they know that you inherit 

Peace and joy. 

PELEG ARK WRIGHT. 



"r^ 



ESrVs 



WHEN the corn-fields and meadows 
Are pearled with the dew, 
With the first sunny shadow 
Walks little Boy Blue. 

Oh the Nymphs and the Graces 

Still gleam on his eyes, 
And the kind fairy faces 

Look down from the skies ; 

And a secret revealing 

Of life within life, 
When feeling meets feeling 

Tn musical strife; 



A winding and weaving 

In flowers and in trees, 
A floating and heaving 

In sunlight and breeze ; . 
A striving and soaring, 

A gladness and grace, 
Make him kneel half adoring 

The God in the place. 
Then amid the live shadows 

Of lambs at their play, 
Where the kine scent the meadows 

With breath like the May, 
He stands in the splendor 

That waits on the morn, 
And a music more tender 

Distils from his horn ; 
And he weeps, he rejoices, 

He prays ; nor in vain, 
For soft loving voices 

Will answer again; 
And the Nymphs and the Graces 

Still gleam through the dew, 
And kind fairy faces 

W r atch little Boy Blue. 



Deathlessness of the Innocent and Good. 



THERE is nothing, no, nothing in- 
nocent and good that dies, and 
is forgotten : let us hold to that 
faith, or none. An infant, a prattling 
child, dying in the cradle, will live again 
in the better thoughts of those who loved 
it ; and play its part through them, in the 
redeeming actions of the world, though 
its body be burned to ashes, or drowned 
in the deep sea. Forgotten ! Oh if the 
deeds of human creatures could be traced 
to their source, how beautiful would even 
death appear; for how much charity, 
mercy and purified affection would be seen 
to have their growth in dusty graves. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 



227 



=<r^^ 



r^feU^* 



<MsV& 



"The name 
Which from THEIR lips seemed a caress." 

Miss Mitford's Dramatic Scenes. 



tl 



HAVE a name, a little name, 
Uncadenced for the ear, 
Unhonored by ancestral claim, 
Unsanctified by prayer and psalm 
The solemn font anear. 



It never did, to pages wove 

For gay romance, belong. 
It never dedicate did move 
As " Sacharissa," unto love, — 

" Orinda," unto song. 

Though I write books, it will be read 

Upon the leaves of none, 
And afterward, when I am dead, 
Will ne'er be graved for sight or tread, 

Across my funeral-stone. 

This name, whoever chance to call 

Perhaps your smile may win. 
Nay, do not smile ! mine eyelids fall 
Over mine eyes, and feel withal 
The sudden tears within. 

Is there a leaf that greenly grows 

Where summer meadows bloom, 
But gathereth the winter snows, 
And changeth to the hue of those, 
If lasting till they come? 

Is there a word, or jest, or game, 

But time encrusteth round 
With sad associate thoughts the same ? 
And so to me my very name 

Assumes a mournful sound. 

My brother gave that name to me 
When we were children twain, — 

When names acquired baptismally 

Were hard to utter, as to see 
That life had any pain. 



No shade was on us then, save one 

Of chestnuts from the hill, — 
And through the word our laugh did run 
As part thereof. The mirth being done, 

He calls me by it still. 

Nay, do not smile ! I hear in it 

What none of j^ou can hear, — 
The talk upon the willow seat, 
The bird and wind that did repeat 
Around, our human cheer. 

I hear the birthday's noisy bliss, 

My sisters' woodland glee, — 
My father's praise I did not miss, 
When, stooping down, he cared to kiss 

The poet at his knee, — 

And voices which, to name me, aye 

Their tenderest tones. were keeping, — 
To some I nevermore can say 
An answer, till God wipes away 
In heaven these drops of weeping. 

My name to me a sadness wears ; 

No murmurs cross my mind. 
Now God be thanked for these thick tears, 
Which show, of those departed years, 

Sweet memories left behind. 

Now God be thanked for years enwrought 

With love which softens yet. 
Now God be thanked for every thought 
Which is so tender it has caught 

Earth's guerdon of regret. 

Earth saddens, never shall remove, 

Affections purely given ; 
And e'en that mortal grief shall prove 
The immortality of love, 

And heighted it with Heaven. 



ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING. 



228 



MAMMA'S K/SSES. 




/*© 



MAMMA'S KISSES. 



KISS when I awake in the 

morning, 
A kiss when I go to bed, 
A kiss when I burn my 
finger, 
A kiss when I bump my 
head. 



A kiss when my bath is over, 
A kiss when my bath begins ; 

My mamma is full of kisses, 
As full as nurse is of pins. 

A kiss when I play with my rattle, 
A kiss when I pull her hair; 

She covered me over with kisses 
The day I fell from the stair. 

A kiss when I give her trouble, 
A kiss when I give her joy; 

There's nothing like mamma's kisses 
For her own little baby boy. 

A. E. FABERS. 

*>o<3^S>o<<> 



ffly Baby, 



WITH frolicsome freaks, 
And rosy, red cheeks, 
My baby lies waiting for me; 
He thinks not of crying, 
But ever is trying 
To sing a glad song in his glee. 

His parted lips show 

Three teeth in a row, 
As white and as precious as pearls : 

And his soft, silken hair 

O'er his forehead so fair 
Falls in dark, thick-clustering curls. 



His eyes, like two stars, 

Peep out from the bars 
Of his crib, as he watches for me, 

And his pink little toes, 

Down under the clothes, 
Are kicking about to be free. 

I'm coming, my boy ! 

My treasure, my joy ! 
You shall wait no longer for me ; 

But we'll up and away, 

And be merry and gay, 
Out under the old maple tree. 

ELIZABETH OLMIS 



TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER. 




gOVE thy mother, little one ! 

Kiss and clasp her neck again, — 
Hereafter she may have a son 
Will kiss and clasp her neck in 
vain. 
Love thy mother, little one ! 



osnyw^T^i 



Gaze upon her living eyes, 

And mirror back her love for thee, — 
Hereafter thou may'st shudder sighs 

To meet them when they cannot see. 
Gaze upon her living eyes ! 

Press her lips the while they glow 

With love that they have often told, — 

Hereafter thou may'st press in woe, 
And kiss them till thine own are cold. 
Press her lips the while they glow ! 

Oh, revere her raven hair! 

Although it be not silver-gray — 
Too early Death, led on by Care, 

May snatch save one dear lock away. 
Oh, revere her raven hair ! 

Pray for her at eve and morn, 
That Heaven may long the stroke defer — 
For thou may'st live the hour forlorn 
When thou wilt ask to die with her. 
Pray for her at eve and morn ! 

THOMAS HOOD. 



229 



zk3k)P®- 



oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 

BEFORE AND AFTER SCHOOL. 

oooooooocooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo 



Q 



BEFORE SCHOOL. 

,UARTER to nine! 

Boys and girls, do yon hear 
" One more buckwheat, then- 
Be quick, mother deal', 
Where is my luncheon-box ? " — 

" Under the shelf, 
Just in the place 

You left it yourself ! " 
" I can't say my table ! " — 

" Oh, find me my cap ! " 
" One kiss for mamma, 

And sweet Sis in her lap." 
" Be good, dear !"— " I'll try." 

"9 times 9's 81." 
" Take your mittens ! "— " All right."- 

" Hurry up, Bill; let's run." 
With a slam of the door 

They are off, girls and boys, 
And the mother draws breath 

In the lull of their noise. 

AFTER SCHOOL. 

" Don't wake up the baby ! 

Come gently, my dear ! " 
Oh, mother, I've torn my 

New dress, just look here ! 
I'm sorry, I only was 

Climbing the wall." 
" Oh, mother, my map 

Was the nicest of all ! " 
" And Nelly, in spelling, 

Went up to the head ! " 
" Oh, say ! can I go out 

On the hill with my sled ? " 
"I've got such a toothache." — 

" The teacher's unfair ! " 
" Is dinner most ready ? 

I'm just like a bear ! " 



Be patient, worn mother 

They're growing up fast, 
9> j These nursery whirlwinds, 

Not long do they last ; 
A still, lonely house would be 

Far worse than noise ; 
Rejoice and be glad in 

Your brave girls and boys ! 



SCHOOLMASTER 



Baby's First Step. 

| WAS a very simple lesson, 

So simple — yet deep and sweet. 
'Twas taught by our year-old baby, 

Whose wee little dancing feet 
Were tottering on the threshold 

Of the open nursery door, 
His bright eyes intently watching 
A new toy upon the floor. 

All untried and untested 

Were those tiny, active feet ; 
Never one step had they taken 

In nursery or on the street; 
But the toy lay far beyond them, 

And our baby's eager eyes 
Danced, and he crowed in his gladness 

As he saw the glittering prize. 

"Come, little boy; come and take it; 

Father will not let you fall." 
He lifted his face and listened, 

As he heard the gentle call; 
Turned his sweet blue eyes, and seeing 

A strong hand on either eide, 
Gathered all his faith and courage, 

And his first weak footstep tried. 



230 




fi[HE turns her great grave eyes toward 
*\ mine, 

y^ While I stroke her soft hair's gold ; 
We watched the moon through the window 
shine ; 

She is only six years old. 
"Is it true," she asks, with her guileless 
mien, 

And her voice in tender tune, 
" That nobody ever yet has seen 

The other side of the moon?" 

I smile at her question, answering "Yes;" 

And then, by a strange thought stirred, 
I murmur, half in forgetfulness 

That she listens to every word : 
" There are treasures on earth so rich and 
fair 

That they can not stay with us here, 
And the other side of the moon is where 

They go when they disappear ! 

" There are hopes that the spirit hardly 
names, 

And songs that it mutely sings ; 
There are good resolves, and exalted aims 

There are longings for nobler things ; 
There are sounds and visions that haunt 
our lot, 

Ere they vanish, or seem to die, 
And the other side of the moon (why not?) 

Is the far bourne where they fly ! 

"We could guess how that realm were 
passing sweet, 

And of strangely precious worth, 
If its distant reaches enshrined complete 

The incompleteness of earth ! 
If there we could find, like a living dream, 

What here we but mourn and miss, 
Oh, the other side of the moon must beam 

With a glory unknown in this ! " 



" Are you talking of Heaven ? " she whis- 
pers now, 

While she nestles against my knees. 
And I say, as I kiss her white wide brow, 

" You may call it so, if you please .... 
For whatever that wondrous land may be, 

Should we journey there, late or soon, 
Perhaps We may look down from Heaven 
and see — 

The other side of the moon ! " 

EDGAR FAUCETT. 



The Wee Bit Shoon. 



THE wee bit shoon she used to wear 
They gav me aften greet ; 
At gloamin' time could I aince mair 
But haud those pink-white feet. 

But haud those feet within my han's, 

An' hear her ripplin' glee, 
A warl' o' houses an' o' lan's, 

Hoo empty wad they be. 

Those tiny palms, could I but taste, 

Sae aft to me stretched out, 
The earth wad be nae mair a waste, 

My heid nae whirl about. 

The curls, hauf-grown, that graced her broo, 

The glintin' o' her een, 
The tremblin' o' her matchless mou', 

Still haunt me, though unseen. 

Wad death gie back, for ane short hour, 

The lapfu' that was mine ; 
But, ah ! but, ah ! I'd hae nae power 

The treasure to resign. 

J. C. RANKIN, D. D. 



231 



FA THER A T PL A Y. 



father at play. 

— •<>— =$-^-*— — 

SUCH fun as we had one rainy day, 
When father was home and helped us 
play ! 

We made a ship and hoisted sail, 
And crossed the sea in a fearful gale — 

But we hadn't sailed into London town, 
When captain and crew and vessel went down. 

Down, down in a jolly wreck, 

With the captain rolling under the deck. 

But he broke out again with a lion's roar, 
And we on two legs, he on four, 

Ban out of the parlor and up the stair, 
And frightened mamma and the baby there. 

So mamma said she'd be p'liceman now, 
And tried to 'rest us. She didn't know how ! 

Then the lion laughed and forgot to roar, 
Till we chased him out of the nursery door ; 

And then he turned to a pony gay, 
And carried us all on his back away. 

Whippity, lickity, hickity ho ! 

If we hadn't fun, then I don't know ! 

Till we tumbled off and he cantered on, 
Never stopping to see if his load was gone. 

And I couldn't tell any more than he 
Which was Charlie and which was me, 

Or which was Towzer, for all in a mix 
You'd think three people had turned to six. 

Till Towzer's tail was caught in the door; 
He wouldn't hurrah with us any more. 

And mamma came out the rumpus to quiet, 
And told us a story to break up the riot. 



SOWING IN TESRS. 



^PTRAIGHT and still the baby lies, 
%?K No more smiling in his eyes, 
Neither tears nor wailing cries. 

Smiles and tears alike are done; 
He has need of neither one — 
Only, I must weep alone. 



Tiny fingers, all too slight, 
Hold within their grasping tight, 
Waxen berries scarce more white. 

Nights and days of weary pain, 
I have held them close — in vain ; 
Now I never shall again. 

Crossed upon a silent breast, 
By no suffering distressed, 
Here they lie in marble rest ; 

They shall ne'er unfolded be, 
Never more in agony 
Cling so pleadingly to me. 

Never ! Oh, the hopeless sound 
To my heart so closely wound 
All his little being round ! 

I forget the shining crown, 

Glad exchange for cross laid down, 

Now his baby brows upon. 

Yearning sore, I only know 
I am very full of woe — 
And I want my baby so ! 

Selfish heart, that thou shouldst prove 
So unworthy of the love 
Which thine idol doth remove ! 

Blinded eyes, that cannot see 

Past the present misery, 

Joy and comfort full and free ! 

O ! my Father, loving Lord ! 
I am ashamed at my own word ; 
Strength and patience me afford. 

I will yield me to thy will ; 
Now thy purposes fulfil ; 
Only help me to be still. 

Though my mother-heart shall ache, 
I believe that for thy sake 
It shall not entirely break. 

And I know I yet shall own, 
For my seeds of sorrow sown, 
Sheaves of joy around thy throne ! 



232 







OME bCENE. 




LOVE with your whole soul, — father 
mother and sister, — for these loves 
shall die! — Not indeed in 
thought, — God be thanked ! Nor yet in 
tears, — for he is merciful ! But they shall 
die, as the leaves die, — die, as Spring dies 
into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and 
as boyhood dies into the elasticity and 
ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and 
Time shall each one of them dig graves 
for your affections ; but this you do not 
know, nor can know till the story of your 
life is ended. 

The dreams of riches, of love, of voy- 
age, of learning that light up the boy age 
with splendor, will pass on and over into 
the hotter dreams of youth. Spring buds 
and blossoms, under the glowing sun of 
April, nurture at their heart those first- 
lings of fruit which the heat of summer 
shall ripen. 

You little know — and for this you may 
well thank Heaven — that you are leaving 
the Spring of life, and you are floating fast 



from the shady sources of your years into 
heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams 
are now faint, flickering shadows, that 
play like fire-flies in the coppices of leafy- 
June. They have no rule but the rule of 
infantile desire ; they have no joys to pro- 
mise greater than joys that belong to your 
passing life ; they have no terrors but 
such terrors as the darkness of a Spring 
night makes. They do not take hold on 
your soul as the dreams of youth and 
manhood will do. 

Your highest hope is shadowed in a 
cheerful, boyish home. You wish no 
friends but the friends of boyhood; no 
sister but your fond Nelly ; none to love 
better than the playful Madge. 

Y^ou forget Clarence that the Spring 
with you is the Spring with them, and 
that the storms of summer may chase wide 
shadows over your path and over theirs. 
And you forget that Summer is even now 
lowering with mist, and with its scorching 
rays, upon the hem of your flowery May. 




DONALD G. MITCHELL. 





v!/ , ^ nit 



%\*wm 



233 





AIR budding age, 
Which next upon life's stage 
Passest a fairy dream before the 

eyes, 
High health and bounding limb, 
Eager and stretching towards the wished-for 

prize ; 
Whate'er the passing care that takes thy 

thought, 
I catch the sweet brisk scent of trodden grass 
When through the golden afternoon 
Of a long day in June, 
Until the twilight dim, 
The playfield echoes with the joyous noise 
Of troops of agile boys, 
Who, bare-armed, throw the rapid-bounding 

ball; 
Who shout and race and fall. 

I see the warm pool fringed with meadow- 
sweet, 
Where stream in summer, with eager feet 
Through gold of buttercups and crested grass, 
The gay processions stripping as they pass. 
I hear the cool and glassy depths divide 
As the bold fair young bodies, far more fair 
Than ever sculptured Nereids were, 
Plunge fearless down, or push,with front or side, 
Through the caressing wave. 

I mark the deadly chill, thro' the young blood, 
When some young life, snatched from the cruel 
flood, 



Looks once upon the flowers, the fields, the 

sun, — 
Looks once, and then is done ! 
Or the grey, frosty field, and the great ball 
Urged on by flying feet. 

Or when the skate rings on the frozen lake, 
The gliding phantoms fleet, 
Eosy with health, and laughing though they 
fall. 

Or by the rapid stream or swirling pool, 
The fisher, with his pliant wand. 

Or by the covert-side, taking his stand, 
The shooter, watching patient hour by hour 
With that hard youthful heart that young 

breasts hold, 
Till the fur glances through the brake ; 
As when our savage sires wandered of old, 
Hungering through primal Avastes. I see them 

all, 
The brisk, swift days of youth, which cares for 

nought 
But for the joy of living ; scarce a thought 
Of Love, or Knowledge, or at best 
Such labor as gives zest 
To the great joy of living. Oh, blest time ! 
For which each passing hour rings out a chime 
Of joy-bells all the year ; ay, tho' through days 
Of ill thou farest, and unhappy ways ; 
Or whether on the sun-struck lands thy feet 
Are the young savage hunter's, lithe and fleet, 
Turning at night-fall to thy father's cot, 



234 



ODE OF CHILDHOOD. 



Bathed in the full white moonlight ; or dost And now thyself immersed in slumbers, deep 



stand 
'Mid the hushed plains of some forsaken 

land ; — 
Where'er thou art, oh, boyhood! thou art free 
And fresh as the young breeze in summer born 
On sun-kissed hills or on the laughing sea, 
Or gay bird-music breathing of the morn, 
Or some sweet rose-bud pearled with early clew, 
As brief and fair as you. 





GIRLHOOD. 



||R in another channel still more 
sweet, 
Life's current flows along, 
Ere yet the tide of passion, full 
and strong, 
Hurries the maiden's feet. 
Oh, sweet and early girlish years 
Of innocent hopes and fears ! 
Busied with fancies bright and gay, 
Which Love shall chase away, 
When, with the flutter of celestial wings, 
He stirs the soul forth from its depths, and 

brings 
Healing from trouble. Oh, deep well 
Of fairy fancies undefiled ! 
Oh, sweet and innocent child ! 

Now with thy doll I see thee full of care, 
Or filled already with the mother's air, 
Hushing thy child to sleep. 



Yet light, I see thee lie. 

And now the singer, lifting a clear voice 

In soaring hymns or carols that rejoice, 

Or busied with thy seam, or doubly fair 

For the unconscious rapture of thy look 

Lost in some simple book. 

Whate'er the color of thy face, 

Thou art fulfilled with grace. 

Oh, little maiden, fair or brown ! 

Thine is the simple beauty which doth crown 

The dreams of happy fathers, who have past 

By Love and Passion, and have come 

To know pure joys of home ; 

And for the hurry and haste of younger years, 

Have taken the hearth that cheers, 

And the fair realm of duty, and delight 

Of innocent faces bright, 

And the sweet wells of feeling and white love, 

A daughter's name can move. 

In every climb and age I see thee still, 
Since the rude nomads wandered forth at will 
Upon the unbounded Aryan pastures wild — 
There thou wert, oh, fair child ! 
" The milker " 'twas they called thee ; all day 

long 
Tending the browsing herds with high-voiced 

song ; 
Or on some sun-warmed place 
Upon the flower-faced grass, 
Watching the old clouds pass, 
And weaving wreaths with such wild grace 
And sprightly girlish glee 
As Proserpine did once in sunny Sicily. 

Or maybe by some widowed hearth — 
The fairest, saddest sight on earth, 
Filled too soon with sweet care, 
And bringing back the voice and air 
Of thy dead mother ; thou art set 
An innocent virgin-mother, childlike yet. 
Thy baby sisters on thy loving arm 
Sleep fast, secure from harm. 
Thou hast no time for game or toy, 
Or other thought but this ; 



235 



ODE OF CHILDHOOD. 

Who findest thy full reward, thy chief est joy, Forlorn in haunts of misery ; 

In thy fond father's kiss. Thou keepest on thy rounded face 

Or under palms to-day, Some unforgotten trace 

Thy childhood fleets away ; Of the old primal days unsung, 

Or by the broadening shadow hid, Of the fresh breezes of pure morn 

Of tomb or pyramid ; When the first maiden child was born, 

In stainless whiteness ; or maybe And Time was young. 

6 — EELj •*> HEEl — £ 



4 AIR streams which run as yet 
Each in its separate channel from the snows ; 
Boyhood and girlhood ; while Life's banks are set 
With blooms that kiss the clear lymph as it flows, 
One swift and strong and deep, 
One where the lilies sleep ; — 

Fair streams, which soon some stress of Life and Time 
Shall bring together, 

Under new magical skies and the strange weather 
Of an enchanted clime. 




236 





SPRINGTIME OF LIFE. 




A Better Way .... 

A Child 

A Child Praying 

A Child's Dream of a Star 

A Child's First Impression of a Star 

A Child's Mood 

A Child's Thought 

A Description of Two Babies . 

A Dinner and a Kiss . 

Advantage of Children 

Advice to Children 

A Farewell .... 

A Father's Wish 

Against Boys .... 

A Graphic Description of a Baby 

A Hint . • . . . 

A Home Scene 

A Moloch of a Baby 

A Mother, but no Child 

A Mother's Joys 

A Mother's Morning Prayer 

A Mother to her New-born Child 

An April Day 

Angel Charlie .... 

Angels Unawares 

Anita and Her Dolls 

Annie .... 

Annie in the Graveyard 

Answer to a Child's Questions 

An Unfinished Prayer 

A Parent's Prayer 

A Patient Baby, 

A Plea for the Boy 

A Portrait .... 

A Question 

Are all the Children In ? . , 

A Remarkable Baby 

Are the Children at Home 

A Son's Kiss in the Sunshine 

A Spring Snow Storm 



Page. 

33 A Sunbeam and a Shadow 

44 A Thought Over a Cradle 

136 A Wee Sang on a Wee Subject 

67 

187 Babies and Their Rights 

104 Baby 

77 Baby 

72 Baby . 

181 Baby Bell 

42 Baby Bye 

159 Baby May 

119 Baby Louise 

11 Babys 
33 Baby's Cradle Song 

12 Baby's Day 
60 Baby's First Step . 

233 Baby's Shoes 

184 Baby's Toes 

213 Baby Thankful 

157 Baby Zulmas' Christmas Carol 

128 Ballad of the Tempest 

155 Baptism .... 

31 Bed-Time 

162 Before and After School 

16 Be Gentle . . . 

66 Be Kind Boys 

164 Benefit of Children 

221 Benny's Questions 

153 Blessings on Children 

84 Books and Reading 

97 Boyhood . 

76 Boyhood .... 

205 Boyhood 

214 Boyish Habits 
33 Boy Lost 

20 Boy Religion 

140 By the Alma River 

24 Calling a Boy in the Morning 

215 Capacity of Children 
55 Casa Wappy 



PAGE 

130 

177 



133 
46 

5i 
82 

86 

87 

27 

156 

222 

223 

63 

230 
198 

5i 
105 

HS 
220 

137 

96 
230 
171 
181 

3 2 
193 

61 
219 

27 
171 

234 
184 
199 

47 
162 
109 
183 
195 



237 



INDEX. 



Castles in the Air 

Castles in the Fire 

Childhood 

Childhood .... 

Childhood 

Childhood .... 

Childhood 

Childhood and His Visitors 

Childhood Eternal 

Children .... 

Children .... 

Children .... 

Children a Loan 

Children of the Rich and Poor 

Children's Hour 

Child's Morning Hymn 

Choosing a Name 

Christ and the Little Ones 

Christ Blessing Childi en . 

Christ Blessing Little Children 

Country Children 

Cradle Song 

Cradle Song 

Cradle Song 

Cradle Song 

Cradle Hymn 

Crown of Childhood 

Danae .... 

Daisy Among the Daisies 

Death in the Cradle . 

Deathlessness of the Innocent 

Death of a Babe 

Death of a Baby 

Death of Little Paul . 

Demeanor Toward Children 

Devotion in Childhood 

Dewdrops Reset 

Dirge for a Young Girl 

Domestic Bliss 

Dot's Baby 

Dream My Baby . . 

Dull Boys . 

Early Days 
Early Spring 
Education 
Eva and Topsy 

Fanny's Mud Pies 
Father at Play 
Father is Coming 
For Chailie's Sake 
For the Children 
Four Years Old 

Gates Ajar 

Girlhood 

Going to Bed 

Going Up 

Golden Tiessdd Adelaide 

Good Life, Long Life . 

Good Night 

Good Night and Good Morning 

Grandfather's Barn 

Hare and Hounds 
Harry's Letter 



Con 



raste 



PAGE. 

52 
■38 

19 

73 
144 
165 
2 '3 

S3 
147 

10 
160 
114 

• 85 

182 

94 
70 

97 
44 
21 
26 
108 
8 
90 

95 
144 
201 
147 

91 
188 

21 
227 
103 

39 
1 10 
102 

37 
40 

'97 
38 
41 
53 

140 

1S2 

43 
208 

85 

65 
232 

143 
209 

139 
193 

74 
235 

7i 

62 
201 
158 
109 

60 
212 

190 

76 



Help Yourselves 
Honey Nellie 
How Mamma Plays 
How the Gates Came Ajar 
How to bring Up Children 
Human Nature 

If I could keep Her So 

Illusions 

Importance of A Child 

Influence of Early Training 

In Memoriam 

In the Cradle Boat 

Introduction to the Songs of Innocer.ce 

Is There Room in Angel Land ? 

Jimes Melville's Child 

Kittie is Gone . . . 



Lady Annie Bothwell's Lament 

Letter to a New-born Child 

Life's Happiest Period 

Lines on the Death of a Child 

Little Baggage 

Little Bell 

Little Boots 

Little Boy Blue 

Little Brown Hands 

L ttle Charlie . 

Little Children 

Little Children 

Little P"eet . 

Little Golden Hair 

Little -Home-Body 

Little Mary"s Secret 

Little Miss Meddlesome 

Littleness 

Little Red Riding Hood 

Little Toddie 

Little Tyrant 

Little Willie Waking Up 

Loss and Gain 

Lucy 

Lullaby 

Lulu's Complaint 



Mamma's Kisses . 

Mamma's Story 

May . 

May Day 

Measuring the Baby 

Memories of Childhood 

Mother and Child 

Mother and Child 

Mother Goose 

Mother's Love . 

Mr. Meek's Baby 

My Baby . 

My Baby 

My Baby 

My Beautiful Child 

My Bird . . . 

My Boy 

My Boy . 

My Child . 

My Mother 

My Mother's Stories 



238 



INDEX. 



My Playmates .... 

My Sermon .... 

No Age Content with Its Own Estate 
No Baby in the House 
"Not Lost, but Gone Before". 
Nurse's Wateh .... 

Ode of Childhood, 

Off for Boyland .... 

One by One .... 

Only a Boy ..... 

On the Death of Child 

On the Death of an Infant 

On the Picture of a Child Tired of Play 

On the Picture of an Infant Playing near 

Precipice . 
On Witnessing a Baptism 
Our Babes 
Our Baby 
Our Baby 
Our Baby 
Our Dear Ones 
Our First Born 
Our Lambs 
Our Wee White Rose 

Patch Work .... 
Paying Her Way 
Philip My King 
Pictures of Memory 
Planting Himself to Grow 
Precocity of Intellect in Childi en 
Prayers of Children 
Recollections of Boyhood 
Romance of a Swan's N( st 

Sad Remembrance of Childhood 

Safe Folded 

Sailing the Boats 

Season Divine . 

Seasons of Prayer 

Seven Times One 

Shadows on the Wall 

Shall the Baby Stay 

She Came and Went 

Slumber Song 

Some Mother's Child 

Sowing in Tears 

Stormy Day Party 

Such Fun 

Sufferings of Childhood 

Suffer Them to Come . 

Sunday Night 

Sunshine in the House 

Sweet and Low 

Sweet Babe 

Sweet Baby Sleep 

Swinging on a Birch Tr< e . 

Take Care of the Children 

Telling a Story 

Thanks to You 

That Little Hat 

The Adopted Child 

The Angel's Whisper 

The Babe 

The Babie 

The Baby I Love 

The Baby's First Tooth 



PAGE. 
72 
91 

112 

I49 
191 
152 

234 

33 
80 
28 

131 
62 

157 

97 
187 

13 

6 

18 

122 

165 
S3 
36 

161 

204 

29 

13 

138 

73 

153 

104 

188 

150 

181 

94 
148 
208 

25 

180 
137 

59 
198 
in 
130 
232 

79 
195 
141 

19 
70 
80 
82 
161 
99 
34 

153 
69 
64 

100 

88 

50 

7 

102 
50 

218 



The Bald-headed Tyrant 

The Bare Foot Boy 

The Battle of Life 

The Bird Catcher 

The Blind Boy . 

The Boy I Love 

The Boy's Appeal 

The Charge of Infantry 

The Child Asleep 

The Child and the Mourners 

The Child Poet . 

The Children . 

The Children 

The Children's Bed-Time 

The Christening 

The Comfort of a Child 

The Cry of the Children . 

The Dead Boy 

The Dearest Baby 

The Deaf Child 

The Death of Children . 

The Education of Children 

The Fairy Child 

The Faults of Children 

The Gambols of Children . 

The Golden Age 

The Goodnight Kiss . 

The Good Ship " Never Fai 

The Greek Boy . 

The Hallowed Drawer 

The Higher Purpose of Children 

The Household Sovereign 

The Idle Shepherd Boys 

The Infant . 

The Infant .... 

The Kitten and the Falling Leaves 

The Lesson 

The Little Black Boy 

The Little Boy That Died 

The Little Cavalier 

The Little Children 

The Little Clothes in the Drawer 

The Little Girl's Wonder 

The Lost Little One 

The Minuet 

The Mitherless Bairn 

The Mother as Teacher 

The Mother's Cradle Song 

The Mother's Heart 

The Mother's Hope 

The Mother's Sacrifice 

The Mother to Her Child 

The Morning Glory 

The Morning Song 

The Naughty Bairn 

The New Comer 

The Nursery 

The Nurse's Song 

The Ode of Infancy 

The Open Window . 

The Origin of Dimphs 

The Other Side of the Moon 

The Pet Name 

The Pet Lamb 

The Play House 

The Poor Man's Riches 

The Queen in Her Carriage Is Riding 

The Reconciliation . 



PAGE. 



By 



239 



INDEX. 



The Ride in a Wheelbarrow 
The Rights of Children 
The School Boy . 
"These are My Jewels" 
The Shepherd Boy 
The Sportive Boy 
The Sunday Baby 
The Sweetest Spot 
The Three Sons 
The Torn Hat 
The Two Year Old 
The Wee Bit Shoon 
The Widow an I Child 
The Widow's Lullaby 
They Planted Her 
This Baby of Ours 
Thoughts while Making 

New-born Child 
Thoughts while She Rock 
Threnodia 
Threnody 
To a Child 
To a Child 
To a Child 
To a Child During Sickness 
To a Child Embracing His Mother 
To Arthur Asleep 
To a Sleeping Child . . 
To Ferdinand Seymour 
To George . . . . . 



the Grave of 



s the Cradle 



PAGE. 

92 

29 

190 

20 

2-6 

157 
92 

8 
45 
56 

7 

160 

178 

64 



28 

IS 
129 
125 
119 
221 
226 
16/ 
229 

39 
117 

23 
114 



To H. C 

To J. H. ... 

To Laura, Two Years of Age 

To My Daughrer 

To the Cuckoo 

Touch Not 

Two School Boys 

Two Years Old 

Under My Window 

Vacation .... 



We Are Seven 

Wh^t Are Children . 

What Does Little Birdie Say ? 

What Education Comprises 

What's a Boy Like ? 

What the Christ Spirit Said to the Children 

When We were Children . 

Which shaU it Be ? 

Whom the Gods Love Die Young 

Who Would be a Boy Again . 

Willie's Prayer 

Willie Winkie 

Woman's Crown 

Woman's Rights 

Ye Ballad of Christmas 



PAGE 

23 

88 

79 
135 

98 
148 
202 

H 

187 

132 

220 
173 
159 
158 

34 
187 

93 
78 
213 
168 
156 
102 
10 

25 

65 




240 



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